Blind Sight
by Valerie J
Summary: Sequel to Thick As Thieves. When Operation: Zero Tolerance turns into a full-fledged mutant hunt, Remy must use all of his resources to keep the X Men safe while they search for a way to bring Bastion down.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Remy LeBeau took a deep breath as he pushed open the heavy double doors that led to the Guild council room. He was late for a session that he couldn't afford to be late to, but the Blackbird had only touched down thirty-five minutes earlier. Cyclops would chew him out later for skipping the team debriefing, but that was a minor inconvenience. The eighteen men seated around the polished oak table who looked up at his abrupt entrance were his main concern today.

No one spoke, but their gazes tracked him with expressions varying from mild reproach to downright hostility as he crossed the room. Remy nodded to his father in silent greeting as he took the seat that waited for him.

"I apologize f' my lateness," he told the man at the head of the table with all sincerity. Had it been up to him, they would have been back hours earlier. Unfortunately, he couldn't tell the X-Men that he needed to be back in New York to take care of some thief business, so he'd been forced to wait until Cyke was ready to go home.

The man seated at the head of the table nodded, his expression neutral. His name was Malcolm Lotho, and he was Guildmaster of the Chicago Thieves Guild. He was a distinguished man in his early sixties, with a mane of silvered hair that only added to his mantle of authority. He was the most senior of the Guildmasters, with the exception of Jean Luc LeBeau, and had held the combined reins of the American guilds since Remy was a child.

Remy scanned the table. All of the other Guildmasters were there, as they were required to be. There were eight total. Michael Tyre had been the ninth, and they represented each of the nine American guilds. Of the others in the room, Remy and one other also held Master status. The other eight men around the table were representatives from the New York Guild. None had yet earned their Master's mark, but they were well respected in the Guild, and in the interval since Michael's death they had been working together to govern the New York thieves.

Remy stretched his long legs under the table, wishing desperately that he could have taken some time to soak before coming to the council. He had only just gone back on active status with the X-Men, and his leg ached from the intense fighting earlier in the day. The wounds Michael had given him had healed as much as they were going to, but even with the help of Shi'ar medical wizardry, Remy was never going to be quite the same.

Guildmaster Lotho cleared his throat. "Now that we are all here, we can begin in earnest." He let his gaze travel around the table, lingering for a moment on each of the men there.

"The New York Guild faces a momentous and difficult choice," he began. "That of electing a Guildmaster to replace Michael Tyre." Lotho stared directly at Remy, who met his gaze without flinching. They had been through all of that already. The council had come within inches of stripping him of his Master's status for endangering the guilds with such a public fight, and, Remy mused, had they done so he couldn't have blamed them. But because Michael had been under investigation by the FBI, and because his greed had so obviously set him on a course that would have exposed his guild to the authorities, it had been agreed that Remy had acted in the best long-term interests of the guilds, despite the danger. Still, it was an embarrassment for the guilds as a whole, and Remy had earned another black mark on his reputation because of it.

After a moment, Lotho's roving gaze moved on. "There are three possible options, as you are all aware." He rapped the table lightly with his knuckles. "One, the council can request that the Guildmaster of another guild relinquish his place in order to take up leadership of the New York Guild."

Remy forced his expression to remain still. That was a highly unusual event, and it surprised him that Lotho would mention it first. To become Guildmaster of any guild required an oath of fealty and service, not only to the guild, but also to the clans as well. There was a unique relationship between a guild and its Guildmaster. The bonds were often as tight as any blood relationship. To ask a Guildmaster to leave his guild, and more, to ask the guild to surrender their patriarch, was no small thing.

Remy saw similar surprise in the faces of the others as Lotho went on. "Two, a Master Thief may be invited to become Guildmaster."

Remy glanced across the table at the only other Master Thief who was not a Guildmaster as well. He thought it highly likely that the New York Guild might ask Shannon to become their new Guildmaster. Remy wouldn't mind that at all. Though he and Shannon had only crossed paths occasionally in the past, he liked the other man. He was a solid thief, capable and level-headed. He might be a bit lacking in ambition, in Remy's opinion, but that was a matter of personal style more than anything else.

Attention around the table had focused on Shannon, and Remy had to force down a stab of bitterness. They certainly weren't going to be looking at _him_ to lead the New York Guild. As unfair as it seemed, Remy figured he was stuck with his rogue's reputation. He broke the rules too often and too loudly to carry that kind of respectability.

Unfortunately, the choices for a Master to take over the guild were slim at that particular point in time. Two Master Thieves had retired in the past couple of years, leaving the ranks thin. That would change, of course, as upcoming thieves challenged for the rank of Master. Remy had been the last to do so, and was the youngest in the guilds' history to ever make Master Thief.

"And three," Lotho continued, "A respected thief from New York can be trained up to the position by another Guildmaster."

That was also a good possibility, Remy thought. Although it took more time, the New York Guild might very well want to be led by one of its own. There were two or three men that Remy thought had the ability to become Masters, and of those, at least one was the kind of man he would choose to lead a guild.

All in all, Remy was comfortable with the choices the New York Guild had before it. Michael could have destroyed them all, but none of the men who stood to inherit his position showed any of the same tendencies. Those who had been Michael's supporters had lost their positions of influence when the guild had learned what their Guildmaster had done.

Lotho paused for a moment, considering the table. "The six months allotted for a guild to choose a new Guildmaster have elapsed, so I must now ask the guild for its choice." Lotho looked over at the group of thieves from New York.

One of the thieves, a man that Remy respected despite their radically different views on many things, slowly stood. His name was Artur Valencia. He spread his fingers on the table top as he turned to Guildmaster Lotho.

"I must admit that this has been a difficult choice, Guildmaster," he said in the soft voice that was his hallmark. He smiled briefly. "In the end, we voted twice—simply because we were surprised by the outcome, I believe."

Lotho raised an eyebrow at that, and Remy saw flickering expressions of concern cross the faces of several of the Guildmasters.

"However, we," Valencia went on, indicating the thieves with him with a wave of one hand, "have become convinced that our choice is that which the guild desires, and the one that will be best for us."

Expectant silence answered him, and Valencia cleared his throat before going on. "The New York Guild chooses to invite Master LeBeau to become Guildmaster and take up leadership of the guild."

Remy nearly choked on his surprise as the eyes of every man in the room snapped to him. He found himself staring at Valencia, dumbfounded, before managing to regain his composure.

The eight men the New York Guild had chosen to lead them through the transition stared back at Remy with firm intent written in their faces. Remy knew them all, had worked with them and around them, but had never counted any but one or two of them as strong political allies against Michael.

Remy stared at Valencia for several moments before voicing the single question that he suspected was on everyone's mind. "Why?"

Valencia favored him with a smile. "There are a number of reasons, of course, and those are privy only to this council." He indicated the men around him. "Suffice it to say that the guild originally chose Master Tyre because the city of New York is a center of influence and of power, and only a man capable of wielding both can protect our guild in such a volatile environment."

Remy digested that statement in silence. He felt like he was standing on the edge of an impossibly tall cliff, debating whether or not to jump. He could refuse the position, if he chose, though he would have to have pretty good reason in order to do so without insulting the New York Guild. The truth was, he simply hadn't ever considered it. Not seriously. The responsibility alone was staggering, and then there was the question of how he would manage things with the X-Men. Even with Bobby running interference for him, he was bound to raise eyebrows and kindle suspicions.

He watched Valencia for a moment more while he tried to contain the chaotic whirl of his thoughts, then glanced at his father. To become Guildmaster of New York, he would have to relinquish his allegiance to the New Orleans Guild. But Jean Luc only nodded, his expression pleased.

Remy pushed his personal considerations away. The true issue was what would be best for the guild, and for the mutants in it. And that, Remy realized, made his choice simple. Michael had sabotaged far too many of Remy's attempts to aid the guild, and had put the people who depended on him at risk too often. As unexpected as it was, the offer to become Guildmaster would give Remy the power to do many of the things that Michael had prevented. Things that, hopefully, would see the mutants of the guild through the difficult times ahead. No one could miss the rising tide of anti-mutant hysteria, or the shifting of political power toward the conservative right. The hints that the Professor had dropped before his leaving, and the disconcerting fact that even Remy could not find where he had been taken after surrendering himself to government custody, made the picture even bleaker than his other sources were indicating.

Trying not to wince at the pain in his leg, Remy stood and faced Valencia. "I'm honored... an' I accept."

#-#-#-#

Remy had no sooner swung his leg over the seat of his bike than his cell phone rang. The phone was another of those items that he never carried in his guise as an X-Man, like the two pistols and his favorite set of lockpicks.

Remy paused before reaching into his coat for the phone. It was almost midnight, and he wanted nothing more than to go home and sleep for about ten hours, but he had made a policy of always answering if he had the phone turned on.

"LeBeau," he answered curtly, wrapping his coat more tightly about him to ward off the evening chill.

"There's something I think you ought to see." Remy recognized the voice on the other end of the line as one of his sources inside the NYPD. He knew the officer's name, but had agreed never to use it, especially on an unsecured phone.

"Where?"

The man gave him an address on the Lower East Side, which Remy recognized with a sinking feeling in his stomach. "Got it."

The phone went dead with a click. Remy folded it up and put it away, then started his bike.

He spent the ride trying to clear his head from the council meeting. Never—not once—had he seriously considered becoming Guildmaster of any guild. At least, not since he was a sixteen year old boy dreaming of ruling New Orleans. But New York had offered, and almost without hesitation, Remy had accepted. Now, he was feeling the delayed shock of that decision.

_Y' really ready t' take responsibility f' t'ree t'ousand people?_ he asked himself yet again.

Scott Summers would probably have fallen off his chair laughing at the thought of Remy taking responsibility for anyone—including himself, he thought bitterly. With great effort, Remy could usually convince himself that it was fun, in a perverse sense, to completely bamboozle a man like Scott, but real truth was that it rankled. Still, the only thing that allowed Remy to continue his lifestyle uninterrupted by ignorant but well-meaning X-Men was to let them believe he was the rebellious freeloader he appeared to be. The connections he had made while working with the X-Men were invaluable—certainly worth the price of his personal ego—but still, he occasionally wished for the chance to rub their noses in the truth.

The address he had been given was illuminated by the red and blue strobes that were a sure sign of trouble. Remy parked his bike several streets away and began a careful approach to the apartment in question. What he saw alarmed him. There was a jagged hole ripped in the wall of the building's second floor, from which a thin trail of smoke emerged. He didn't see any fire-fighting equipment, nor did he see any sign of water on the building, which led him to believe that the fire must have been small and localized inside somewhere. There was little rubble on the ground beneath the hole, indicating that something had punched through the wall rather than that it had been blown out from the inside.

He crept close enough to listen in on the conversations of the police and ME's as they went in and out of the building. The only thing of real interest that he overheard was that the man who lived there was most definitely dead. That didn't surprise him, but it did bother him. Remy always felt a pang when someone who worked for him was killed. This looked like it was mutant-related, too, which meant that it was more than likely because of the job Remy had hired him to do.

Remy was forced to wait another two hours before the investigators finished up and went home for the night, leaving a pair of patrolmen on watch out on the street. Remy ignored them as he worked his way inside the building from the back. The highly sophisticated security system on the upstairs apartment had been disarmed, whether by the fire or some other action, Remy couldn't guess.

Remy crouched just inside the door of the apartment, allowing it to swing slowly shut behind him. The man who had lived there was one of the best hackers Remy knew. He was one of the first of the second generation of computer anarchists. His father had been a student radical back in the Berkeley days, and he had been immersed in the culture since he was a kid. Remy had come to him out of sheer desperation, in the hopes that he was good enough to penetrate the layers of protection surrounding a company named Draxar.

The question now was what had he found that had gotten him killed?

The apartment was a mess. Burn lines from laser fire crisscrossed the walls, continuing uninterrupted through bookcases, computer equipment and furniture. Each of the many monitor screens in the room was shattered, and gave Remy an obvious source for the thin smoke. The destruction was widespread, making Remy think that whoever had done this had been there to destroy rather than steal information.

He avoided the living room area with its piles of mangled computer equipment and instead headed for the back. Everything important was kept under the bathroom sink, and Remy had high hopes that whoever had done this had only hit the obvious targets.

He breathed a silent sigh of relief to discover that the small safe hidden beneath the cabinet was still intact, its face hidden by a haphazard pile of shaving cream cans, toilet paper and band aids. Despite his skill, it took Remy until dawn to get the safe open. He didn't bother to examine its contents, but simply scooped up the collection of disks and CD's and dumped them into a secure pocket inside his coat.

He ducked out of the apartment as quickly as possible, then made his way back to where he had left his bike. The sun was already peeking over the roofs of the building. As Remy drove down the street past the wrecked apartment, he saw the first shift of police investigators arriving, coffee and bagels in hand.

His stomach growled in protest, and Remy muttered a string of curses under his breath. Not only was he exhausted, sore and hungry, but the soon-to-be Guildmaster was also going to be late for the X-Men's morning training session.

#-#-#-#

"Where have you been?" Scott Summers demanded as soon as Remy entered the Danger Room.

"Out," he snapped in return and telescoped his bo staff to its full length. "Y' got a problem wit' dat?"

The other X-Men watched them warily, well-familiar with the sparks that flew whenever the two were in a room together. In the Professor's absence, it had only gotten worse as Cyclops grew more and more burdened by the responsibility of directing the X-Men alone. Remy was only just beginning to appreciate how much the Professor had shielded him from the keen eyes of the most senior X-Man, and he sometime regretted making Cyclops' job that much harder.

Of course, that was usually about the point at which he pushed Scott too far and found himself subjected to one of the man's self-righteous speeches about honor, respect and responsibility, which sapped his regret right on the spot.

Scott only glared at him this time, however, and Remy sent a silent thanks to the saints for the reprieve as he took his place.

"Hold just a moment if you will, Cyclops," Hank called to Scott, and then hopped down from his perch atop a simulated rock outcropping. He approached Remy slowly, his expression thoughtful. Scott turned to watch.

"Remy, how are you feeling?"

Remy kept his poker face in place by an effort of will. He'd been afraid of this. "Tired an' sore, miseur Bete," he tried to put as much flippancy into the words as he could manage, "but it's been a long night, neh?"

"Apparently for you." Hank cocked his head with a small smile. "I would think that a man your age would have developed the sense not to stay out _all_ night..." He trailed off when Remy refused to rise to his bait.

"Ah well. But I do think you should reconsider joining us for this session." He lowered his voice to encompass just the two of them. "You're running pretty close to your limits already."

"Got t' push de limits if I wan' t' move dem, Hank," Remy answered in the same low tone.

Hank pursed his lips for a moment, but then nodded acquiescence. "It's your choice."

Remy watched the blue furred doctor thoughtfully as he climbed back to his place. They had reached a kind of understanding during the past six months, as Remy had struggled with the realities of the physical damage he'd suffered. There had been a time back at the beginning when Hank had had to present him with the possibility that he would lose his leg completely because of the damage Michael's exoskeleton had caused. And even though that possibility had never come to pass, Hank had been a rock steady presence then, and also through the first stages of rehab when frustration with his own weakness and despair of ever regaining his strength had threatened to drag Remy down into black depression.

Bobby watched the exchange from a short distance away, his face set in the grim lines that Remy recognized. He considered himself responsible for Remy's injuries. To a large degree, he was. But still, Remy had made his own choices that day, too. Given the chance to do it over again, he doubted that he would choose any differently.

The scenario began at Cyclops' command, and Remy's gut tightened. Predictably, it was an exact replay of what had happened the day before. It was Scott's usual practice to go back through every mission scenario, which was one of the things that Remy secretly appreciated about the man. Scott could have simply pointed out the errors made by his team during any particular encounter and then waved his hands at them and said "Go do it right next time". But instead, he would take them through the events over and over again, if necessary, until everyone was satisfied that they knew _how _to do it right when the next opportunity arose.

The bad part was, Remy wasn't entirely certain he was going to be able to keep up.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Bobby Drake evaded a beam of energy aimed at his head, sliding nimbly aside without losing his focus on the temperature shield he was creating. It was yet another new application of his power he'd discovered in the past few months, and one of his favorites.

The air along one side of the X-Men shimmered with millions of tiny ice particles, trapped in a narrow wall of intensely low temperatures. Bobby had learned that he had to fill the cold region with something visible to warn the X-Men of its presence. Objects that flew through the wall of cold were supercooled by their passage. Metals became brittle and other materials froze solid, both of which caused the object to shatter upon slamming into the warm air on the far side of the cold zone. It wasn't a force field, but that was effectively how it behaved.

Unfortunately, the severe temperature inversions interfered with Storm's ability to manipulate weather phenomena on a fine scale. Physics was physics after all, so Bobby made an effort to keep the shield well away from where Storm hovered. He was often amazed by the change in his perspective—and his fighting style. Where once it had been a matter of having enough power to keep up with the other X-Men, now Bobby spent much of his effort keeping his powers toned down to a level that would not put his teammates at risk.

Bobby spared a glance downward from his perch atop his ice slide. Gambit was still doing all right, though he was fighting defensively for the most part. Bobby suppressed a surge of irritation, fueled by guilt and worry. Remy had obviously spent the night working. Bobby knew his body language well enough now that he could see the exhaustion that the others would miss. And, unfortunately, he also understood why Remy would push himself past what was wise to stay for the training session.

Staying would most likely be interpreted as a guilt reaction. It implied a need to make up for what he'd been doing the night before—at least, that was how Scott would interpret it, and he was the important one. So, without saying a word and without any other supporting evidence, by staying in the session Remy was implying that he'd spent his night doing something Scott would disapprove of. It was a subtle form of manipulation, and an art that Bobby was still learning.

Nearby, Rogue was grappling with one of the energy-based beasties the X-Men had been combating the day before. The creature exploded into long streamers of glowing confetti as one of Gambit's cards found it and Rogue turned to glare at him.

"Ah didn' ask foh ya help, Cajun!" she snapped. On another day, the same sentence would have been a flirtatious challenge, but not today. Unfortunately, all of the work Gambit put in to giving Scott the impression that he'd spent the night out partying also worked on Rogue.

Bobby felt a surge of sympathy. Rogue's anger and frustration were reasonable, given the lifestyle that Remy portrayed to her and the other X-Men. It was an ugly trap for Remy. Bobby had several times had to throttle the desire to take Rogue to the Club and show her the truth. But he understood the reasons to keep her ignorant of the Guild and the secret life that both he and Remy led. He wasn't certain enough of how she'd react to take that risk, and he knew Remy wasn't either.

Gambit was forced to move as several of the creatures converged on him. He launched himself over the back of one of them, somersaulting neatly as he threw a trio of charged cards. The thing snapped at him with a pincer and Remy twisted savagely midair to avoid it. Bobby saw the hard landing coming a moment before it happened and winced as Remy hit the ground feet first, then dropped to his knees with a cry of pain, his cards scattering.

Instinctively, Bobby changed his state to water and fell in a cascade, transforming back into his ice form as he touched the floor of the danger room. Without pausing, he created large hands of ice that picked up the glowing creatures and hurled them away from Gambit.

Gambit didn't move. He was still on his knees, with one hand braced against the ground. Bobby felt the first stirrings of alarm at the same time that the holographic projections around him began to dissipate.

Bobby knelt beside him. "Remy?"

"Oui?" The single word dripped sarcasm. Bobby sucked in his breath. It had been a while since he'd had to stop and think to make sure the next thing he said wasn't stupid.

He was saved from finding a response as Hank bounded across the Danger Room, coming to a stop beside Bobby. He studied Remy with poorly concealed concern, then reached over and touched his shoulder. "Can you stand?" he asked gently.

Remy glanced up, the tightness around his eyes betraying his pain. "Oh, sure, Hank. No problem. I jus' t'ought I'd take a lil' breather, non?"

With a stab of regret, Bobby recognized the biting sarcasm for what it was and held up a hand to forestall Hank from reaching out to help him. Hank met Bobby's gaze, his lips pressed together in a thin line, but then nodded. They waited patiently as Remy climbed to his feet. It hurt Bobby to watch the painstaking process from a man who was normally so graceful he could make a cat jealous, but it was important to let him do it himself.

Remy straightened completely and turned to Hank, his gaze flat, but from somewhere he managed to summon a smile. "Don' y' dare say it," he told Hank.

Hank appeared to take the small joke for the apology it was, and grinned in return. "Moi?" His tone was light. "My dear Gambit, whatever could possibly have made you think that I would stoop so low as to use the phrase 'I told you so' in your presence?"

Remy gave him a dirty look, which Hank blithely ignored. The other X-Men had gathered around them by that point. Rogue stood at a short distance, arms crossed, her expression a cross between relief and disgust. Scott wore a similar expression. Beside him, Jean's face was deceptively mild and Bobby found himself wondering yet again just how much she'd seen in Remy's mind that day. She was by far the most tolerant of the X-Men when it came to Remy's comings and goings-- and his own.

"After you," Hank gestured grandly for Remy to precede him to the door.

Remy rolled his eyes at the theatrics, but turned obediently and took a small, limping step in that direction. Behind them, Rogue growled something under her breath and then, shaking her head, moved forward. She flew to Remy side, landed neatly and wrapped one arm around his waist for support. It was the first time in a week or more that Bobby had seen the two of them together like that, and he suppressed a sigh. Unbidden, he glanced up at the control room windows, where he knew Diedre watched the practice session. Knowing what Remy had been willing to do to make their love possible made him wish he could, in some way, repay the debt.

Even a brief thought of his wife made Bobby smile, but the expression died as Scott approached. As much as he liked Scott, the fine line he walked as a thief made him always wary around the X-Men's field leader. There were too many things he needed to keep hidden to ever be completely comfortable around him.

"Bobby, do you have any idea where Gambit was all night?" Scott's brow was drawn in a pensive frown.

Bobby shook his head. "Not a clue." He was curious what Remy had been up to as well.

Scott crossed his arms and stared at the floor, a sure sign that he was thinking something through.

Jean laid her hand on his arm. "Scott, honey, what is it?"

Scott shrugged and looked up at her. "I'm concerned about Remy's behavior. I thought getting hurt would sober him up some, but he's going right back to his old patterns. He stays out all night doing who knows what, and then can barely drag himself through a standard training exercise. He disappears without telling anyone where he's going or when he'll be back... "

"Remy has always been there when the X-Men needed him." Ororo put one hand on her hip as she regarded Scott.

"In general, yes." Scott made a sweeping gesture. "But I'm not sure he has the resources anymore to keep up that kind of life, and if he's not careful it's going to get him—or one of us—killed."

#-#-#-#

Bobby let himself into Gambit's room as quietly as he could, sparing a glance for the still-sleeping figure on the bed. He'd come through a couple of times in the last twelve hours, mostly to give Remy an excuse to wake up if he was ready to. He had the feeling there was a lot going on, and that the Master thief couldn't afford to miss too much of it.

A soft rustle alerted him. Bobby shielded his eyes as Remy sat up and switched on the bedside lamp.

"How long've I been out?" Remy folded his legs Indian-style and laid his forehead in his hands.

"About eighteen hours."

Remy rubbed his eyes savagely, as if trying to clear the last of his grogginess. "Get m' laptop, would y'?" He waved in the direction of the desk.

Bobby did so while Remy climbed out of bed and fetched a pair of jeans. Bobby kept a covert eye on him, and was relieved to see that he was limping only a little, which appeared to be more stiffness than pain.

He had the laptop up and running by the time Remy sat down beside him and began sorting through a handful of CDs.

Bobby didn't bother to ask the obvious. He simply waited for Remy to hand him one of the disks.

"Y' remember Tom Scales?" Remy asked, his attention still focused on his search.

Bobby shrugged. "Sure." Tom was a hacker, and probably the source of the disks.

Remy picked out one of the disks and considered it gravely. "He's dead." He glanced at Bobby. "An' dis is probably de reason why."

Silent, Bobby accepted the proffered disk and put it in the machine he held. Unsurprisingly, when he tried to access it, he came up with a password screen. He passed the laptop to Remy, who typed in a string without hesitation. The screen cleared, giving the two men a view of the contents of the disk, which consisted of about a dozen files with incomprehensible names.

Remy shrugged and opened the first one. It appeared to be a ledger of some kind, and had the Draxar corporate logo at the top. Bobby peered at it with interest. He recognized the software and knew that he was looking at some kind of expenditures tracking, but the file appeared to be encrypted. Either that or the accountant was fluent in Sanskrit.

Remy closed the file and opened the next. Bobby guessed that it was some kind of report, but what kind he couldn't guess. The document was a good twenty pages and encrypted as well.

Remy shut down the laptop and handed Bobby the CD. "Dere's a little computer parts shop down on 48th street called Computer Smart. Ask f' Lee. He'll deal wit' y' because y' Guild, an' he should be able t' decrypt dis. Make sure y' burn an extra copy."

Bobby gave him a curious glance. "Why not have Torri do it?" Torri was a woman of the Clans, and one of the best computer talents the Guild had.

Remy shook his head. "I want t' keep dis outside de Guild. It's too dangerous. Lee works f' de Martino family. Let dese Draxar folks sniff 'round de Mafia if dey wan', but I want t' keep de Guild out o' it."

Bobby arched one eyebrow speculatively, but didn't comment. Mafia had a strong influence in New York, and the Thieves Guild walked carefully around them most of the time. There was no direct conflict of interest since the crime families weren't into high dollar theft, but the threat of trouble was always lurking. Bobby was a little surprised that Remy would take the risk of using the Mafia for his stalking horse, but perhaps he found that danger less than that of letting Draxar get too close to the Guild.

Remy stood and returned the laptop to its customary place inside the desk, then began to dress.

"Are you going into the city tonight?" Bobby asked him. It was only just past sunset, but he was liable to get himself even further onto Scott's bad side if he took off for another night.

Remy shook his head. "Non. I'm gon' get somet'ing t' eat an' den get out o' here f' a little bit t' make some phone calls, but dat's it."

Bobby felt a small wave of relief. "Do you need me to do anything else while I'm out, then?"

"Don' t'ink so. Take y' wife wit' y' an' have some fun tonight, neh? T'ings gon' get pretty busy f' a while an' I'm gon' need y' help. Especially where de X-Men are concerned."

Bobby frowned at the slightly ominous ring to his words. "Because of this Draxar thing?"

Remy shook his head again. "Non. Dat's a different issue entirely."

Bobby ran through a string of possibilities and came to a conclusion that made his gut tighten. "It's about the new Guildmaster then."

Remy flashed him a surprisingly caustic smile. "Oui."

"So who did they pick?"

Remy dropped onto the bed with a sigh. He seemed suddenly older, tired. "Me, Bobby. Dey picked me."

It took Bobby a moment to find his voice. "Wow. That's good though, right?" He felt like his head was spinning from the implications.

Remy leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "I hope so."

The quiet uncertainty in the words startled Bobby out of his thoughts. One of Remy's strengths was the ability to make solid decisions quickly and to carry them through with full confidence. It was rare for him to hesitate or second guess himself.

"Remy?"

"Oui?" Remy didn't look up.

"Are you all right?"

Remy paused long enough that Bobby knew he was lying. "Fine, Bobby. It's jus' a lot o' responsibility, neh?"

"Yeah," he agreed softly, feeling suddenly cold. The last time he'd heard that tone in Remy's voice had been in Seattle, in the wreckage of an old theater where something terrible had once happened. Something Bobby still didn't know anything about, and wasn't sure he wanted to. He knew Remy kept a lot of secrets, and he trusted his reasons for doing so, but there was something about this one that scared Remy, and scared him badly.

Hoping that he was reading entirely too much into a simple comment, Bobby turned and left. It might just be understandable nervousness, after all. And no matter what Remy's private fears were, Bobby couldn't think of anyone who was more capable of leading the Guild.

#-#-#-#

Remy's mutant kinesthetic sense picked up the approach of an airborne figure just a little too late. He cut off his conversation abruptly and dropped the cell phone back into an inner pocket, but not before Rogue had gotten too close to have missed noticing. She dropped lightly to the ground a few feet away from where he sat on his parked bike and wrapped her arms around herself.

The stance was a sure sign she was suspicious and Remy felt his anger blossom. He throttled it mercilessly, but couldn't help the accompanying surge of bitterness. _Saints, why couldn' I fall f' a t'ief woman?_

If she would just give him one reason to believe that he could introduce her to the Guild without destroying everything he was trying to protect, he would have shown her the truth. It was tearing him apart to be caught in the middle, but he cared too much about her to quit trying. Unfortunately, right now trying was synonymous with failing, and all they were managing to do was make the rift between them wider.

"Who were you talking to?" Rogue asked without preamble. To her credit she sounded curious rather than accusing, and Remy did his best to convince himself that she was, in fact, just trying to make conversation.

Remy sighed. "Wasn' not'ing important, chere." In fact, it had been a fairly mundane discussion of some of the details of the upcoming Guild ceremony. So he wasn't lying to her, which he adamantly refused to do. But simply refusing to answer wasn't much better. It eased his conscience some, but did nothing to reassure Rogue. He clenched his jaw to keep from grinding his teeth in silent frustration.

Rogue's eyes narrowed fractionally. "For somethin' that ain't important, ya sure got rid a whoever that was awful fast when ya saw me comin'."

_Ouch_, Remy thought, but kept his expression still.

"Did y' wan' somet'ing, chere?" he asked quietly after a moment and saw the hurt anger flash to life behind her eyes.

"No," she answered curtly. "Ah'm sorry ah bothered ya." She bit her lip as the familiar shine of tears appeared in her eyes. But before Remy could find something to say, she launched herself straight up into the sky like a bullet until her form was a tiny dot lost against the darkness.

Filled with impotent fury, Remy grabbed the handlebars of his bike and started it with a savage motion. Dirt sprayed behind him in a heavy shower as he spun the tires and then squealed out onto the narrow road. He knew it was impossible to outrun the pain, but that didn't mean he couldn't lose it for a little while in the adrenaline rush as he pushed both the bike and himself beyond the limits of safety and sense, into that fine gray area on the edge of instability where one real mistake would probably cost him his life.

#-#-#-#

Diedre Drake paused at the entrance to the kitchen, debating whether to go in. Rogue sat at the little table tucked into the corner of the kitchen, her robe and disheveled hair indicating to Diedre that she had probably been there for a while. Dawn was only just beginning to lighten the edges of the sky.

Diedre was an early riser by nature and often surprised the X-Men by being up and about even before they were. She liked the stillness—the sense of patient expectation as the world waited those last minutes before the sun would return. Unfortunately, because of the schedule that Bobby kept, it sometimes meant that she was getting up just in time to meet him as he came home and headed for bed. Not that she was complaining. Even the hard parts of being married to Bobby and living with the X-Men were better than anything she'd had in the past.

With that in mind, she looked back at Rogue. The other woman was a few years younger than Diedre, with a chip on her shoulder for all the wrong life had done her and a volatile temper that made Diedre want to keep a careful distance lest she become the latest victim of Rogue's razor-edged tongue. But for all of the hard exterior, Diedre could see glimpses of the hurt that was hidden underneath. Hurt she understood all too well.

She went to the counter to fetch a couple of oranges and a knife before taking a seat at the table. Rogue glanced up momentarily, but then went back to contemplating the dregs of her coffee. Diedre was content to sit quietly and peel her orange. She wasn't very good at starting conversations, but perhaps she could give some silent sympathy.

When she'd finished peeling the orange, she separated the sections and offered one to Rogue. "Would you like some?"

Rogue glanced up again, but shook her head and then set her coffee mug down with a sigh. "Ah don't mean ta be rude, sugah, but would ya mind goin' someplace else with those? Ah'd really like ta be alone f' a while." Her eyes didn't quite meet Diedre's.

Diedre pressed her lips together at the rebuke and carefully set the pieces of her orange down in front of her. Her temptation was always to take the harsh words personally, and to believe that they were no more than she deserved. But she understood, in her head at least, that Rogue was being rude in the hopes that she could scare Diedre off and not have to deal with any personal questions. It was a defense mechanism she had seen Rogue use on all of the X-Men. That knowledge didn't keep her gut from curling up into a tight little knot, but it did give her enough courage not to bolt from the room.

"The kitchen is going to get busy here pretty soon," she offered, hoping that her voice sounded neutral. "If you want to be alone, you may want to find someplace else before the X-Men start looking for breakfast."

Rogue's eyes narrowed, but then she looked toward the window, where the sky had turned shades of pink and orange. "Maybe ah should," she agreed, and pushed herself to her feet.

She froze at the sound of the front door opening and then closing. Even without her reaction, Diedre knew who that had to be. Only Bobby or Remy would be coming in through the front door at this hour, and Bobby was in their room, asleep. Footsteps echoed softly on the hardwood floors, coming closer.

Remy stopped in the kitchen doorway as his gaze locked with Rogue's. Diedre had the sudden irrational urge to hide under the table as the tension level in the room skyrocketed. Having known him for several years through the Thieves Guild, Diedre was often surprised by Remy these days. She was used to his silk suits and perfect manners, not torn jeans and leather jackets, and his hair wild from a ride on the motorcycle. Until she'd come to live at the mansion, she'd never once seen the Master thief lose his temper. But Rogue possessed an uncanny ability to set him off, and Diedre had been truly terrified the first time she'd been caught in the midst of a full-blown fight between the two of them. Even now, the violence that sparked between them made her very uncomfortable. She understood that they were a little different than she was—Remy was a lethal hand-to-hand combatant and Rogue was physically invulnerable. But still, real love didn't treat people that way. Real love was gentle. It had taken a lot of hurt and nearly dying for Diedre to come to understand that. It was a realization that had changed her life. She only wished that she could find a way to explain to these two before they broke something between them that couldn't be fixed.

Swallowing convulsively, Diedre stood as well and gathered up the pile of orange peels on the table.

"Good morning, Remy," she said as cheerfully as she could manage in that atmosphere, and then deliberately passed between them as she went to throw the peels into the trash.

Her action broke the eye contact between Remy and Rogue, and Remy returned her greeting with a strained smile. "Mornin', Snowflake."

Diedre couldn't help a small grimace. It has started out as a joke. The X-Men called Bobby "Popsicle" on a regular basis, and they had dubbed her "Snowflake" in contrast. The name had stuck, sort of like an honorary codename, despite the fact that she was not and never would be an X-Man.

Remy's momentary smile faded as he turned his attention to Rogue. "Y' wan' talk 'bout dis?" he asked frankly. Diedre didn't know specifically which "this" he was referring to, though she had a list of probable candidates. Whatever fight the two had had, she hadn't been present, for which she was grateful.

"Are ya gonna tell me who ya were talkin' to?" Rogue answered.

Remy's gaze flickered to Diedre for the barest moment, and she knew in an instant that it had to involve thief business. "No, chere. It ain' any of y' concern." Diedre could hear the echoes of regret in his voice.

Rogue's lips thinned angrily. "Then ah don't see as we have anything ta talk about, Cajun."

Remy's fingers twitched as if he were fighting the desire to ball them into fists. "Fine." He turned smartly on his heel and left, his footsteps uncommonly loud in the stillness.

After a moment, Rogue let out her breath in a shaky sigh.

"Rogue?" Diedre wondered if she had any business getting involved. The Clans were her family. She understood the need to protect them, even from the X-Men. But she knew she couldn't just stand by and do _nothing_.

"Leave me alone, sugah." The words came out as a choked whisper.

"Does it really matter who he was talking to?"

Rogue glanced up at her for a bare moment, her eyes glimmering with unshed tears. Slowly she shook her head. "No, it doesn't. But it matters that he won't tell me."

Diedre watched her sympathetically. "Why?"

"Because it means he still doesn't trust me." Sniffling slightly, Rogue tightened the sash of her robe and then wandered slowly out of the kitchen.

When she was gone, Diedre sank back into her seat and stretched her hands out on the table. Her wedding rings flashed in the first rays of sunlight and she contemplated them solemnly as the morning brought the mansion to life around her.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

As Remy spoke the final words of the ceremony, he felt Guildmaster Lotho's hands tighten over his. It was a supportive gesture. Remy wondered briefly if his face reflected how thoroughly he was reeling on the inside. It was partly a matter of the oath he was accepting—an oath of loyalty and service that bound him to the New York Guild until his death-- but it was also simply a matter of his mutant powers. Remy's kinesthetic sense was damped down to a level he could stand, but still, his power tracked the motion of each of the three thousand plus people who ringed him. He could have pushed his awareness down further and saved himself the accompanying nausea, but he wanted to feel them. These were his family now. They were his responsibility and wherever he decided to lead them, they would go.

For a man who had spent much of his life running away from responsibility, it was something of a shock.

"If I let you go, son, are you going to fall over on me?"

Guildmaster Lotho's blue eyes glinted with amusement. Remy had the distinct impression the other man was pleased by his reaction. Around them, the other seven Guildmasters were arranged in a circle, and though their faces were hidden as required by tradition, Remy could feel a sense of approval from many of them as well. He wasn't certain why, but he had gotten the feeling that, after the initial surprise had worn off, many of the Guildmasters had ended up cautiously agreeing with the New York Guild's choice.

Remy shook his head and took a deep breath. "I'm all right, Guildmaster."

Lotho squeezed his hands once more, then released him and stepped back. The ceremonial sword that Remy had taken his oath on was streaked red with his blood, but he ignored the burning pain in his palm as he brought the blade up in a salute. In response, the silence in the underground amphitheater shattered as the combined members of the clans and the Guild began to applaud. Within the confined space of the arena the sound bounced around, reflecting off of walls and ceiling until the entire cavern vibrated with the thunderous roar.

Remy closed his eyes briefly, once again overwhelmed, and then brought the sword down sharply to complete the salute. In a part of his mind, he understood that the applause wasn't entirely for him, Remy LeBeau. The Guild in particular, but also the Clans by extension, had suffered a great deal of harm at Michael's hands. They were eager for change and for a new start. Much of that hope was wrapped up in Remy as the new Guildmaster, and their enthusiasm would probably not have been any different no matter who was taking up the reins. But still, it was incredibly gratifying and in that instant he was certain that he would do everything in his power to fulfill the oath he had just taken.

#-#-#-#

Remy hesitated on the threshold of the Guildmaster's quarters within the Guild complex. He had been there before, of course, to see Michael, but he hadn't been back since the other man's death. He vaguely recalled someone asking him about decor, but with the flurry of preparations it hadn't really connected in his mind that the suite would be redone for him. He had opened the door expecting Michael's modern impressionist art, the angular furniture and oddly colored lighting. Instead, he was greeted by a far more pleasant scene.

Remy stepped inside, allowing the solid oak door to swing shut behind him. The only constant thing in the room was the massive desk. Even Michael had had the sense not to try to replace that. It was nearly three hundred years old, made by a master craftsman in Italy for the first Guildmaster of New York.

Remy ran his fingers lightly across the polished mahogany surface and with a sigh sat down in the high backed leather chair behind it. From there, he surveyed the office. _His_ office. The thought was enough to draw a snort of amusement.

A Monet was hung directly across from his seat at the desk. He studied it while his thief's training picked out the details of the room. The carpet was short but plush, done in a subdued paisley that contrasted nicely with the creamy color of the walls and the dark wood trim. A portion of the room was taken up by a couch and several chairs arranged in a comfortable group. Remy took note of the low profile video/sound system built into the wall at the focus of the arrangement. There was also a small wet bar, flanked by a pair of tropical-looking plants Remy didn't recognize. Everything in the room was of exquisite quality and matched his tastes perfectly.

There was one other door in the room, which presumably led to the rest of the suite. Remy had never been through it, and had no idea how extensive the area beyond might be. He wasn't quite ready to go exploring, however.

Sighing softly, Remy closed his eyes and laid his head back against the chair. A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts almost before he'd had the time to form any. He'd been keeping his spatial sense damped as far as possible in the hours after the Guild ceremony in an attempt to bleed off the overload to his system, and so the knock startled him. But as soon as he set his power loose, he recognized the person outside the door.

"Door's open, Bobby," he called.

The familiar blond head and matching grin peeked around the door. Bobby looked around as he came inside.

"Nice," he commented.

Remy was once again amazed by how much Bobby had changed. The boy who would have been intimidated by that room had vanished, and in his place stood a man who studied his surroundings with casual interest.

"Y' headed home?" Remy asked him.

Bobby nodded. "Diedre wanted to talk to her mom for a while, but I think they're about ready to call it a night. I just wanted to check in with you before we left."

Remy waved him away. "I'm fine. I'll see y' back at de mansion in a few days, neh?" Knowing that taking over the Guild would require all of his time for a while, he'd given the X-Men a story about going to visit an old friend in New Orleans. Scott hadn't been thrilled, but he'd accepted the excuse without question which was all that mattered to Remy.

"Right." Bobby grinned again. "Good night... Guildmaster."

Their gazes locked. Remy felt a surge of affection and appreciation for the young man. He was a rarity in Remy's life—a real friend-- and the note of pure confidence in his voice was a much needed reassurance. He found himself grinning in response.

"G'night, T'ief."

#-#-#-#

Scott Summers rapped gently on the open lab door and waited for Hank to look up from whatever intricate work he was doing.

"Can I help you with something, O Fearless One?" Hank asked with a smile as he adjusted his glasses.

Scott shot him a brief look of annoyance. He couldn't even remember who had hung that particular nickname on him, but he never had liked it. The X-Men seemed to, though, which was why he tried not to protest too much.

"Yeah, Hank. I wanted to talk to you about Gambit." He came forward into the room and stopped beside the table where Hank was working.

"Is something wrong?" An expression of concern creased his friend's blue face.

Scott cocked his head. "You're the one who cleared him for active status."

Hank's expression cleared. "Ah." He sat back in his chair. "But you're still concerned."

Scott sighed and rapped the table lightly with his fingertips. He still wasn't sure what exactly it was that was bothering him about Gambit these days, but Hank seemed like the best person to start with to see if he couldn't bring the nagging uncertainty to light.

He nodded. "I am. You said he would recover ninety-five percent of his abilities—"

"I said he _could _recover _as much as_ ninety-five percent," Hank clarified. He pulled off his glasses and tossed them down on the table. "But no matter what, it's going to take more time than this. The injuries themselves have healed, but to rebuild the strength and stamina will take longer."

"So you don't think putting him back on active status now is... premature?"

Hank's expression turned thoughtful. "In terms of his ability to support the team..." He frowned, "Probably. But in terms of his own recovery, it simply couldn't have waited any longer."

Scott considered that. He understood Hank's point, but couldn't say that he agreed. Hank was first and foremost a physician, and as such, his priorities often focused on the needs of the individual X-Men rather than those of the team.

"I can understand that it's important for Remy to feel valuable," Scott said, "but I'm not willing to put the entire team at risk just to bolster his confidence."

Hank chuckled lightly. "You haven't spent much time with our Ragin' Cajun lately, have you? He doesn't need confidence."

Scott eyed him doubtfully. "You think the bravado is more than skin deep?"

"I know so." Hank's expression turned solemn. "I watched him learn how to walk again, remember?"

Scott pressed his lips together, surprised by the reaction. He hadn't realized that Hank was so deeply impressed by Remy's recovery. It shed a slightly different light on their conversation. Sighing, he crossed his arms and settled himself to listen. "O.k. Hank. Explain it to me."

Hank nodded and flashed him a grin. "How fit would you say you are?"

"What?" Scott floundered with the abrupt change in direction.

Hank chuckled at his reaction. "No need to be embarrassed, now. I'm your doctor. But, compared to say... a member of the SEALs... how would you rate?"

Scott fought the heat he could feel building in his cheeks. His parents and grandparents had always taught him that it was rude to boast about your own abilities, but Hank was his doctor as he'd said. He should already know the answer, and the opening was simply more than Scott could resist.

"You know I'd eat his lunch," he quipped, and was answered by Hank's bark of laughter.

"Indeed. And why is that? Certainly the military's top operatives train as hard as you do, wouldn't you think?"

Scott thought about that for a moment, and then nodded. "I guess that's a reasonable assumption." The question started his mind to turning. Why was it that the X-Men always had the advantage when they clashed with the military's best? It wasn't just a matter of powers. As he thought back through some of the conflicts he remembered, he could clearly see the distinct physical advantage some of the X-Men held.

Hank seemed to know when he'd followed his thoughts to their conclusion. "It's a matter of lifestyle," he said quietly. "We X-Men train diligently because it could save our lives, but that is no different than a number of other people with dangerous professions. The difference is, to a large degree, how often we are called on to exercise that training. We are in more violent conflicts more often than just about anyone else. And then, on our downtime, we play in the Danger Room or we engage in games of full-powers combat basketball."

Scott had to smile at the memories Hank was conjuring up for him, but despite his amusement, he understood what the other was trying to say. "All right. I suppose I take your point. But Remy came to the X-Men in that kind of condition."

Hank nodded. "Because he was a professional thief. I believe the same principles apply."

"Hmpf. Maybe." Scott stared unseeing at his reflection in the gleaming surface of the lab table. "I would be surprised if thieving was that demanding."

Hank very slowly arched one eyebrow. "Are you suggesting some other source for his conditioning?" There was a note of uneasiness in his voice.

Scott looked up into his friend's eyes. "I'm not _suggesting_ anything. But it does make me wonder."

"Wonder what, exactly?"

Scott shrugged uncomfortably. "Where Gambit comes from. I can't say that joining the X-Men has improved his fighting skills one whit—he was already in top form when he got here. I suppose I'd be forced to admit that his teamwork skills have improved dramatically, but that's a slightly different issue."

Hank fingered the rim of his glasses for a moment, then picked them up and placed them back on his nose. "Well, this is your opportunity, then."

"For what?"

Hank's smile was strangely knowing. "Remy isn't going to be able to regain his abilities without the X-Men... unless he goes back to wherever he got his training in the first place."

#-#-#-#

The Club was in full swing when Remy arrived. He had taken the back stairs that rose from the underground levels of the Guild complex where his office was located, and so went unnoticed for a few moments as he stood in the shadows in a back corner of the room. To the untrained eye, he knew the sea of people and the raucous babble of conversations would seem like nothing more than what it pretended to be—a high dollar night club and casino. But to Remy, the true significance of the events that transpired all around him was obvious. This was where the Thieves Guild did its business. Amid the lights and music, the drinks, the tables and the women, there were pockets of seriousness. Here was where the Guild negotiated its contracts and accepted its fees. After all, what simpler means of accepting payment was there than for the person in question to lose the required amount at the craps table?

Remy narrowed his attention, focusing on Artur Valencia. Artur sat with a man Remy recognized at one of the little café tables. They were supposed to be working out the final details of a fairly risky but highly rewarding pinch that the Guild had contracted. It was the kind of work Remy would have taken had he not had so many other things to do at the moment, and he felt a small pang of jealousy.

Artur and the man shook hands, concluding their conversation, and Remy stepped out into the crowd. As he made his way toward Artur, the people around him noticed his presence and moved out of the way with a nod or a brief apology. It was nice, if a bit disconcerting, not to have to maneuver his way through the crowd. Remy was not quite as composed as he would have liked when he stepped up onto the raised platform that housed the small café.

"Guildmaster," Artur greeted him with a smile.

"Evenin' Artur," Remy returned, and nodded toward the retreating figure of Artur's guest. "He went f' it?"

Artur nodded and sat back down in his chair. "No complaints on any of the stipulations. He's willing to wait on delivery to make sure it can't be traced, so we shouldn't have any problems."

"Dat's good." Remy sat down opposite him and stretched his legs out under the table.

"The only question now is who the job should be given to." Artur eyed Remy speculatively, as if debating whether to say anything more.

Remy tapped the slick black table top lightly with one finger as he considered his response. Artur was almost fifteen years Remy's senior, and knew a good deal more about running the Guild than Remy did. He was a born administrator who knew the abilities of each and every Guild thief. He had already become invaluable as an advisor on the inner workings of the administrative aspects of Guild leadership.

But the statement he had made to Remy was more of a test, to see if the new Guildmaster was going to establish himself as the final authority on such decisions, or if he was going to delegate the task completely as Michael had done. Remy's first instinct was to do absolutely the opposite of Michael no matter what it was, but he squelched the desire. The fact that Michael had kept out of many of the day-to-day details of running his Guild was probably the only reason they'd survived. Artur and the other men like him had done a commendable job of keeping the Guild on track, except where Michael's influence had countered their efforts.

He met Artur's eyes. "Y' have a recommendation?" It would be foolish of Remy to ignore the experience and expertise of a man like Artur, but he did want to be more involved in the details of the Guild than Michael was.

Artur favored him with one of his strangely gentle smiles. "Do you know Joseph Kline?"

Remy couldn't help a small scowl. Joseph was a talented thief, but he was also one of Michael's cronies. He'd been found innocent of any actions that would have threatened the Guild. Still, Remy considered him to be neutral, at best.

'_Course, I may jus' be prejudiced 'gainst de man because o' his name_, Remy reminded himself sarcastically. A different Joseph was part of the reason for the friction between Rogue and himself. For some bizarre, unthinkable reason, Rogue had decided to take a de-aged and memory-less Magneto under her wing. The ex-villain had developed a crush on her that wasn't sitting well with Remy at all.

"Joseph is loyal to the Guild," Artur said, and Remy forced his mind back onto the topic at hand.

_But not loyal t' me_, he thought, realizing the importance of the difference. "What about Marcus?" Marcus Black was one of a very few thieves Remy felt had the ability to become a Master thief.

Artur nodded. "He has the skill, certainly, but he isn't very familiar with Syndex security systems." Syndex used a non-standard wiring layout and had the unfortunate tendency to booby-trap portions of their more complex systems. They were one of the leaders in advanced security, and were responsible for protecting the item that the Guild had contracted to steal.

They talked for a while longer until Remy was convinced that Artur had indeed named the best man for the job, despite his reservations.

Remy sighed and drained the last of his scotch. "If you've got dat much confidence in him, den I trust y' judgment," he told Artur and was rewarded by the older man's expression of pleased surprise.

"I appreciate that, Guildmaster." Artur nodded and stood, giving Remy an oddly conspiratorial grin. "The line seems to be forming, so I'll get on with this and let someone else have a chance at you."

Remy couldn't help but return the smile. He, too, had noticed the people who hovered nearby, waiting for their turn to talk to the Guildmaster. In many cases, he already knew what the topics of conversation would be, but there were a few that looked to be new problems for him to deal with. He fingered his empty glass, debating whether to order a second drink. He had the sudden feeling that it was going to be a long night.

#-#-#-#

The sharp, insistent ringing of the phone dragged Rogue out of her dreams. She rolled over, reaching for the handset, as she caught sight of the alarm clock whose digital numbers glowed an iridescent green in the darkness.

Still groggy, she managed to grab the receiver and put it against her ear. "Hello?"

"M' sorry, chere. Did I wake y'?"

Recognition drove away her sleepiness. "Remy?" She glanced at the clock again. "Remy, it's almost three in the mornin'. Are ya all right?" There was something in his voice that alarmed her.

"M' fine, chere. I jus'... wanted t' hear y' voice."

Rogue paused, everything she might have said to him suddenly forgotten as a tingling warmth spread outward from her stomach. They hadn't said much to each other before he'd left, and now, four days later, she could hardly remember what she'd been so angry about.

"You sound tired, sugah." That was what set her internal alarms to ringing. He sounded utterly exhausted and she couldn't help but wonder if his casual "visit" wasn't for far more serious reasons than he'd let on.

Remy chuckled lightly, though, and his voice lost its dullness. "I haven' been gettin' much sleep." He yawned hugely and Rogue grinned. He was sounding better by the moment. Her worry eased somewhat.

"Are ya comin' home soon?"

"Oui, chere. Day or two, I t'ink." She heard him rustling around, the sounds indistinct through the phone. There was a soft thud, followed by a second, that Rogue thought might be shoes hitting the ground. Then Remy sighed softly and the rustling stopped. "Y' still gon' be mad at me when I get dere?"

Rogue sucked in her breath in surprise at the blunt question. She had to stop and think for a moment about the argument they'd had and what it was that had upset her so much about his behavior.

"Ah... don't think so." She paused a moment, then forced herself to say the rest of the words that hovered on the tip of her tongue. "Ah just wish ya'd let me into ya life a little bit." Her heart was pounding in terror as the words left her mouth, and she waited in dreadful anticipation of how he would answer.

"Maybe..." His voice was faint, as if his mind was far away, wrapped up in its own thoughts. "Maybe dat would be a good idea."

She waited a bit longer, but he remained silent.

"Is that a promise, Cajun?" she asked, hoping that she sounded teasing rather than demanding—or desperate.

"Oui." He was back suddenly, snapped out of his thoughts. "It is. We'll go out once I get back, neh? Dere's a place I should take y'."

"All right," she agreed, uncertain exactly what it was she was agreeing to. It sounded more significant than just a date, but it was the first time Remy had ever _offered_ her information and she wasn't about to pass up the opportunity.

"I'll see y' when I get back den."

"Ah'll be waitin'."

Rogue slowly set the phone back down in its cradle and rolled over to lie on her back. She stared at the ceiling, her thoughts whirling. She hardly dared to hope that whatever Remy had in mind might mean some real answers– and a chance for their relationship to finally move forward.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Remy glanced at the clock and mentally _tsked_ at himself. He was supposed to be sleeping. He'd only managed to catch about an hour and a half nap before his monitor duty started that morning, but now there was football on the TV and a very friendly woman curled up against him on the couch. He had no intention of giving up either just because he was a little tired.

Rogue reached across him to grab a handful of popcorn from the bowl Bishop was holding with the uncomfortable ease of a man carrying a disarmed bomb. She smiled at Remy as she munched on the handful and he found himself grinning back, wondering if he looked as much like a love-struck fool as he felt. Rogue had met him in the driveway when he'd gotten back and had hugged him with such enthusiasm that it had swept away all of his lingering uncertainty about what he had promised her.

The risk hadn't changed, though, so he was going to have to introduce her to the Thieves' culture very slowly. In coming to the X-Men, Rogue had rejected everything having to do with her past. He still wasn't certain but that the rejection wouldn't extend to himself and his Guild if she found out the truth. In some ways, she could be as narrowly focused as Scott, and as black-and-white in her definitions of right and wrong. But now that he didn't also have to worry about Michael finding a way to use her as a weapon against him in the Guild, maybe it was time to find out.

The phone rang, shattering his introspection. He pushed the thoughts away as Jean picked up the phone. Her eyebrows flickered in poorly concealed surprise.

"Remy, it's for you."

Remy's gut tightened. There were precious few people who would call him at the mansion. He gave her a genuinely puzzled look and accepted the phone.

"'Lo?"

"Hello, Remy. It's Dyson. Sorry to call you at this number, but I didn't think it could wait." The voice on the other end of the line was smooth and precise, just like the man it was attached to.

Remy arched an eyebrow. "What's de problem?" Around him, the X-Men perked their ears a bit, not rude enough to watch him but obviously curious.

"You know those accounts you've been having me keep an eye on for the past few years? Well, I just got a nibble at one of my hooks."

Remy digested that as he forced his expression to remain mild. Dyson was a security consultant, as he liked to be called, and his specialty was money. No matter what it was or where you were keeping it, Dyson's job was to make sure it stayed safe. Remy had used him for years to keep an eye on his own accounts, primarily to make sure that various investigative agencies didn't track him down through his investments or his onshore accounts. When he'd joined the X-Men on a semi-permanent basis, it had seemed prudent to have him watch the Professor and Warren as well. Remy didn't expect anyone to find him through either of them, but he believed in protecting his back. The fact that someone had just tripped one of Dyson's alarms on one of those accounts made him suddenly very nervous.

He nudged Rogue to move over so he could get up. She did so, curiosity written on her face.

Remy shrugged and covered the mouth of the phone with his hand. "M' accountant. Wants t' talk 'bout some t'ings."

Scott gave him a surprised look, "You have an accountant?"

"Dat surprise y', mon ami?" Remy couldn't help the sarcasm that crept into his voice. For all that he needed the X-Men to think he was both irresponsible and dilettante, he found the reaction extremely annoying.

Scott favored him with a thoughtful frown. "A little, I guess. You've never mentioned it before."

Remy considered that expression to be among Scott's most dangerous. It meant he was thinking, and Remy had learned from experience what a tremendous intuitive thinker Scott was. If he got _too _curious, Remy was certain he would start putting the pieces together. That was why he felt compelled to use such heavy-handed misdirection with the X-Men, and so far, at least, it had been sufficient to distract Cyclops.

Remy shrugged, an insolent gesture calculated to anger the other man. "Consider it mentioned."

Scott's lips thinned at the retort, but he didn't respond. Remy took the opportunity to escape to the back porch.

He settled in one of the patio chairs and propped his feet up. "Now, what happened?" he asked Dyson.

"Not much to tell, I'm afraid. Somebody made a couple of forays into Xavier's personal finances. Not the school money—that hasn't been touched. It looks like they were tracing expenditures, which makes me think they're trying to find links."

"Could y' back trace it?" Remy stared at his boots. It sounded like someone was trying to identify the Professor's associates by following his money. It was a standard tactic for agencies like the F.B.I and Interpol. They weren't going to find much, though. The Professor had very capable accountants. Everything he did that was associated with the mutant underground or people like Valerie Cooper was done very discretely. Even Dyson had been impressed.

"That's why I called. I followed them back into the banking infrastructure, but then it started getting really complex. There's a new watchdog patrolling those lanes. It spotted both of us, but it let the other one through and cut me out."

Remy didn't pretend to completely understand the cyber jargon. He was a fair hacker, but nothing compared to people like Dyson. He did know that a watchdog was a security program that protected a certain set of data exchanges. The one Dyson was talking about was probably either owned by one of the larger banks, or was a Federal code run by the FCC. Either way, the fact that it had deliberately allowed the infiltrator to pass was a bad sign.

"T'anks f' de info," Remy told him. "Is dere anyt'ing we can do t' keep him out next time?"

"Actually, I was thinking you might want to get a little more drastic than just adding more security. These accounts you want me to watch have been pretty static over the past few years. They do leave traces, no matter how hard somebody works to erase them. If you really want to make them more secure, we need to talk about some judicious rearranging..."

"Can' do dat," Remy answered unhappily. Scott wasn't an idiot. He had control of the Professor's accounts in his absence and he wouldn't miss the fact that someone else had moved them around.

Dyson sighed. "Well, then you're out of luck."

Remy couldn't help a smile. "Not me, mon ami. I never run out o' luck."

On the other end, Dyson chuckled. "I hope so. I'll beef up my codes and let you know if they come back."

"T'anks." Another thought occurred to him. "Anyt'ing going on wit' Worthington Industries? Dey got decent security."

Dyson snorted at that assessment. "Nope. Fat, dumb and happy. Whatever's going on, they haven't caught wind of it."

Remy scratched the back of his neck where a prickly feeling was starting to build. "Y' ever heard of a company called Draxar, Dyson?" With Tom dead, Remy wondered if it was wise to ask any more questions about that place, but more than ever he needed to know.

He was answered by complete silence on the other end of the line. Then, "Yeah, I've heard of them," Dyson admitted.

Remy waited as the feeling on the back of his neck intensified.

"They call it the Death Star because the security's so good," Dyson told him. "I don't know of anybody who has managed to hack in. Not even the anarchists, and they'd probably be the first to make it."

Again, Remy didn't completely follow him, but he got the gist, and he understood enough to realize that Draxar was even more dangerous than he'd believed. The anarchists Dyson referred to were the people who created the truly nasty viruses. The kind that could launch missiles and crash Wall Street. They were among the most skilled and most twisted of hackers. If they couldn't get in, then it had to be military and that put a slightly different light on things.

Feeling more alarmed than he'd like to admit, Remy turned off the phone and laid it down on the patio table. He still didn't know enough to gauge the threat that Draxar posed, or even at whom that threat might be directed, but he was convinced now that he needed to start taking some steps to make sure that neither the Guild nor the X-Men would be caught unawares when Draxar finally revealed itself.

#-#-#-#

Rogue smoothed her skirt nervously and turned once more to check her reflection in the mirror. The gown she had picked was long and sleek, the silk an olive color that was an unusual choice for her. The fabric was stitched with an intricate pattern of stylized peacocks, the brilliant hues of the feathers picking out the color of her eyes and hair. It was the most beautiful thing she owned, and she felt a bit hesitant about wearing it. But Remy had said "black tie" when she'd asked, so now all she could do was hope he'd meant what he said and she wouldn't be overdressed. She couldn't help the frightened, excited fluttering in her stomach. He'd made her a promise and tonight was supposed to be part of keeping that promise.

Taking a deep breath to try to settle her stomach, she picked up her purse and headed downstairs. She found Remy in the foyer with Ororo and Logan. He turned around as she entered, and she felt a momentary wash of relief as she noted the distinct black and white of a tuxedo beneath the long black overcoat he wore. But then her thoughts scattered as he smiled at her. She felt rooted in place by his gaze as he closed the distance between them, a long-stemmed red rose appearing in his fingers as if by magic. The soft petals stroked her cheek in a gentle caress, their perfume filling the air around her, before he offered her the rose with a flourish.

"For you, ma cherie."

Flushing violently and well aware of the smiles that Ororo and Logan were exchanging a few steps away, she accepted with as much grace as she could manage. To her surprise, Remy's only response was to offer his arm. He could be such a gentleman sometimes that it amazed her.

They walked out together. Rogue wasn't surprised to find the yellow Ferrari parked outside. Remy held her door and she slid into the passenger seat with the thought that tonight she might actually look like she belonged in it. Smiling, she sniffed the rose. If he was trying to sweep her off her feet with some kind of fairy tail evening, he was off to a pretty good start.

#-#-#-#

"Is this where ya wanted ta take me?" she couldn't help but ask as they walked into the most astounding restaurant Rogue had ever seen. They were on the top of one of New York's taller skyscrapers. The entire structure was made of glass. It was almost as if they were floating above the city, the view was so complete. The air was filled with the gentle burble of running water from the fountains that were scattered around the room, and a small orchestral group was seated on a raised dais in the middle of the restaurant, their music in perfect counterpoint to the water.

Remy grinned and squeezed her hand. "Non. Dis is jus' dinner." His smile faded. "But it is a lil' bit o' what I promised y'."

Rogue looked around with even greater curiosity as the maitre'd approached them. He smiled at them both and bowed in greeting, then gestured for them to follow.

"Your table is prepared, if you'll come with me."

Rogue arched an eyebrow at the maitre'd's behavior, but kept her thoughts to herself as they followed him out into the restaurant. Something in the man's tone of voice made her think that he wasn't randomly selecting a table for them. It was more as if he'd recognized Remy on sight and was now taking them to a place that had been reserved for their use.

After a moment, she dismissed the thoughts. She didn't frequent any really posh restaurants. He was probably treating them just like he treated everyone else. It did give her pause to wonder just how much Remy was paying for the evening, though, and how Scott would react if he found out the school's money was being used for something so extravagant.

Her hopes for an intimate and romantic evening were abruptly ended as she spied Bobby and Diedre seated at one of the tables. She was startled not only by their presence, but also by how beautiful they looked. Bobby had always struck her as being attractive in a cute, boyish sort of way, but dressed in a tuxedo and surrounded by such sophistication, she had to admit that perhaps she had never looked closely enough. The man who stood and greeted them both with characteristic enthusiasm was downright handsome. Diedre, too, looked surprisingly pretty. She wore white as if she'd been born for it, and seemed oddly comfortable amid the elegance that surrounded them.

Remy held her chair for her as she sat down at the table, and then the maitre'd took his coat and Rogue indulged herself in a moment of simply staring at him. There was no doubt whatsoever that Remy LeBeau was a handsome man. Even disheveled, unshaven and dressed in rags, he was almost magnetically attractive. This, however, was something different_. Debonair_ was the word that floated through her mind. She had once jokingly told herself that he was as close to Prince Charming as she was ever going to get, with the understanding that that wasn't all that close. At the moment, though, she couldn't think of anyone who fit the description better. The conclusion startled her, and she felt the first stirrings of suspicion. This was entirely unlike Remy. He was a rough-and-tumble, blue collar kind of man. She didn't particularly care about social graces—they weren't exactly her strong suit either—but the four of them should have looked like fish out of water in the glittering restaurant. The only problem was that _she_ was the only one that seemed to be the least bit uncomfortable. Remy and the Drakes looked like they belonged there.

Their waiter came by, bringing them water in tall, slim goblets. Rogue toyed with the intricate lemon twist that adorned hers, in the process flicking the edge of her glass with a fingernail. The pure, clear tone of crystal rang out and she grabbed up the glass to deaden the sound. None of her companions seemed to notice, though. The two men were talking about a variety of things with the comfortable ease of old friends. It amazed Rogue how much had changed in the year she'd been away. During the course of their admittedly bizarre road trip from Florida to Seattle, Rogue had gotten the distinct impression that Bobby held a dislike for Remy that bordered on hatred. And yet, only a year later during those few horrible days when Remy was literally teetering on the edge between life and death, it had been Bobby who he had reached out for, whose presence seemed to pull him back every time he started to slide away into the dark again.

She felt a familiar stab of jealousy for Bobby, who seemed to have all of the knowledge she yearned to possess. She shoved the feeling away, ashamed of herself, and took a sip of her water. Diedre caught Rogue's eye over the top of the glass, her smile echoing the other woman's discomfort.

"I suppose we have a long way to go to catch up with them." Diedre nodded toward the two men.

Rogue understood what she meant, and bit her lip. She and Diedre were not close. Rouge wasn't sure why, except that Diedre seemed so fragile and easily hurt that Rogue felt like she couldn't say anything she thought without causing the other woman to flinch. Rogue knew she wasn't one of the world's most sensitive people --that she could be a little abrupt at times—and that Diedre had come out of an abusive relationship that no one seemed willing to talk about, so she'd simply concluded that the less contact she had with her, the better.

"Ah suppose so," she agreed softly.

The waiter came back then and proceeded to describe the evening's menu to them. Rogue found herself getting lost about halfway through each item because of the dizzying array of culinary terms she simply didn't know, but she managed to select something without making a fool of herself. The others made their choices as well, and the conversation moved on to wines. After a few moments, Remy and the waiter shifted into French.

Bobby chuckled. "Snob."

Remy ignored him so deliberately that Rogue was forced to smile. Her mood lightened slowly as the gentle banter between Remy and Bobby continued. The waiter apparently managed to get a wine choice out of Remy because he excused himself and left. The four of them settled into a somewhat more comfortable atmosphere as they waited for the meal to be served.

"What do y' t'ink o' de restaurant, chere?" Remy asked her at one point.

Rogue paused in her train of thought, taken aback by the intensity lurking behind his gaze. She had the strangest feeling she was being asked a loaded question, but she couldn't imagine how or why. Her sense of wrongness with the evening came back full force. A tiny pit of fear formed in her stomach.

"It's beautiful," she answered, looking around once more. Then she centered her attention on Remy, "But ah don't understand what this has ta do with..." She glanced involuntarily toward Bobby and Diedre. Her personal relationship with Remy wasn't something she wanted to discuss in front of an audience.

Remy followed her gaze. "It's all right, chere. Dey know what we're doin' here."

"And what exactly is that?" The question came out more sharply than she intended, but the fear in her stomach simply wouldn't go away.

She saw a flash of anger in Remy's eyes that disappeared immediately, leaving something hard in its wake. "Y' wanted t' know more about me, neh?" He made a sweeping gesture. "So tonight we start."

Rogue blinked in surprise at his tone, her anger suddenly sapped by the strangeness of the conversation. "What do they have ta do with it?" She nodded toward the Drakes.

Bobby grinned in response and leaned forward. "I'm the self-appointed chaperone and peace-keeper for you two."

"Excuse me?"

Beside her, Remy snorted in sour amusement. "He's got us dere."

Before she could sort out a response, Bobby reached across the table and grabbed her arm, which was covered by the long sleeve of her dress. "Come dance with me."

Rogue looked between him and Diedre, who shrugged and glanced at her husband. "I don't mind."

"But—" She turned to Remy, who returned her gaze mildly, but didn't comment.

"Rogue, put on your gloves and let's dance." Bobby's tone was still light, but this time it brooked no argument.

Uncertain, she did as he suggested. Bobby took her hand and lead her out to the small dance floor beside the orchestra.

"When did ya learn how ta dance, sugah?" she couldn't help but ask as they began. From what she remembered, he had always been a barely passable dancer. Now, he moved them both with confident poise.

Bobby chuckled. "Recently."

Rogue didn't have a response, and the momentary silence stretched. Everything inside her roiled in confusion. She didn't know whether to be hurt, angry or afraid.

"How long have we been friends, Rogue?"

She turned to look at him, the gentleness in his voice like a sudden anchor. "Since we were fifteen," she answered hesitantly. She felt intensely vulnerable, and didn't understand why.

"Then can I give you some advice?"

Part of her immediately shouted _No!_, but she throttled that particular voice and nodded. "Ah suppose so."

"Remy is never going to simply _tell_ you what you want to know."

Startled by his bluntness, she stammered, "What do ya mean? Tell me about what?"

Bobby shrugged. "Anything. It's just not part of who he is." He nodded toward the focus of their attention, who was still seated at the table talking with Diedre. "I know Remy. I know how much he loves you." Rogue's gaze snapped back to his face, her heart lurching, as he continued, "I know he's willing to let you into any part of his life you want to see, but you're going to have to figure out the answers for yourself."

Rogue was mystified. "Ah don't understand that. Why? All ah want from him is a straight answer instead a these games." Her hand on his shoulder balled into a fist, echoing her frustration.

Bobby squeezed her reassuringly. "It's not a game, Rogue. Guaranteed. But you're going to have to be observant and use your head if you want to get to know him."

"Why?" She was beginning to feel like a broken record.

"Because otherwise you'll never see what's really there."

The answer was so obtuse it was almost funny. "That doesn't help me very much," she told him dryly.

He chuckled. "Then let me give you an example. What color is the rose Remy gave you?"

She gave him a quizzical stare. "Red, o' course."

"What about the one on the table? And no peeking, now." His grin was guileless.

Rogue thought for a moment. There had been rose bud in a vase on the table. "Um, white, ah think."

"Nope, pink. How many forks are there beside your plate?"

She stared at him in hopeless confusion. "How should ah know? What in the world does this have ta do with anythin'?"

Bobby's smile faded. "It's all about observation, Rogue—paying attention to the details. This is all really basic stuff, but you weren't paying attention so you don't remember what you saw."

"Hey!" She felt vaguely insulted, but couldn't deny that he was right.

"Well?" This time, there was a note of challenge in his voice.

She sighed. "All right, sugah. Ah can't deny that one."

His grin returned. "Good. So that's my advice. _Pay attention_. Watch everything Remy does, especially the little things. Ask yourself why, and then think it through until you figure it out." He released his hold on her to wag a finger under her nose in almost playful warning. "But be aware... Remy will be watching you just as closely to see how you react once you do figure him out."

Rogue felt her heart sink. "It's like ya want us ta _spy_ on each other, Bobby! Love's supposed ta be about _trust_--"

She broke off as his fingers tightened fiercely around hers. "What happened after Israel, Rogue? After you had all of those answers you want dumped directly into your brain?" His uncompromising gaze bored directly into her heart. Had it been anyone else, she probably would have told them that Israel was none of their business, but Bobby had been there—with her-- through everything that had happened afterward. She wanted desperately to pull away from him, to deny what he was suggesting, but she was rooted in place by the guilty knowledge that he was right.

He nodded slowly. "So give the man a little room to be cautious."

#-#-#-#

At night, the Statue of Liberty was lit with a golden glow that seemed to surround her figure with a halo of warmth and strength. Rogue closed her eyes and let the cool offshore breeze wash over her face. She leaned out over the railing, hoping desperately to let the night air cleanse the confusion from her mind and heart. The dinner had gone well enough, and the food had been absolutely wonderful, but she had spent the entire evening in rigid terror, preternaturally aware of the man who sat beside her. The man who now leaned casually against the side of his car, waiting. Even so, she'd tried to do what Bobby said. She'd tried to watch, but she didn't have the faintest idea what she was supposed to be looking for.

A moment later, she heard footsteps approaching. They stopped directly behind her. She held her breath as he took hold of the railing on either side of her. Part of her wanted to sink back against him and the rest wanted to bolt, and, torn between conflicting desires, she simply froze.

"What did y' see tonight, cherie?" She felt his breath in her hair as he spoke.

Rogue opened her eyes and stared up at the Statue. _Observation_, she told herself. It was all about observation. For lack of anything better to offer, she went with her first impression.

"A very expensive restaurant."

He shifted slightly behind her, and she wished she dared turn to look at his face. "Care t' take a guess at de number?" There was something playful in his voice, and she felt a small amount of reassurance.

She made a face as she tried to formulate a guess. It was a very nice restaurant... there had been four of them, and if she was _completely_ extravagant in her estimate...

Rogue shrugged. "Ah don't know. A thousand, maybe?" She looked up to find him grinning at her.

"More like eight, chere."

She gaped at him. "Eight _thousand_? Dollars? For _dinner_?"

His eyes danced with amusement at her reaction, but he shrugged. "De plates start at about fifteen hundred, an' dat wine y' drank was two centuries old."

Rogue closed her jaw with a snap and looked back out over the water. The first thought that popped into her mind was so absurd, yet she finally decided that the only way she would ever know was if she just voiced her guess.

She tried to make it sound as teasing as possible. "Please tell me ya didn't steal somethin' ta pay fo' dinner."

He laughed, sounding surprised. "Non. I haven' stolen anyt'ing f' profit since I joined de X-Men."

Rogue's fingers tightened on the railing. She'd wanted to hear him say that for two years, to state in no uncertain terms that he wasn't a thief anymore. But every time she'd broached the subject, he had evaded her questions. Now, as she turned the last few minutes over in her mind, she wondered what was different that he would suddenly just say it.

"How come ya never told me that before when ah asked ya about it?"

He shrugged and looked out at the water. "I suppose dis is de first time I t'ought y' would believe me."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Rogue paused in the kitchen doorway, somewhat surprised by the woman seated at the table. Jean was rarely at the mansion at this hour except for training, and then she would be in uniform. Instead, she was dressed in sweats, with her hair pulled back in a rough ponytail that didn't look like it had involved a hairbrush in the making. She cradled a glass of what appeared to be seltzer water in both hands, occasionally taking a cautious sip.

"Sugah, what are ya doing up here? Ya look like ya ought ta be back in bed."

Jean looked up as Rogue took a seat at the table. "We ran out." She indicated the glass in her hand.

Rogue gave her a sympathetic smile. She hadn't been sick for years—a side effect of absorbing Carol Danvers' powers-- but she clearly remembered having the flu as a kid. "Ah always liked Sprite mahself. Maybe 'cause it was sweeter."

Jean gave her a flickering grin, tipping the glass she held to stare at its contents appraisingly. "It is awful." She took a sip and made a sour face. "But it settles my stomach." Already, Rogue thought, she was looking a little less green around the gills.

Her observation was interrupted by Joseph, who came into the kitchen bearing a small stack of plates, the obvious remains of his breakfast. His normally somber expression lifted when he spied them.

"Good morning, Rogue, Jean."

Rogue couldn't help but smile at him. "'Mornin' Joseph." It was strange how much his presence brightened her day. She couldn't exactly say why, but it was true. She'd spent a fair amount of time trying to figure it out once she realized that it was _her _reactions to Joseph that made Remy angry rather than anything Joseph was doing. But still, she wasn't sure. In part, she knew, it was simply because she cared about him. She had known him for years as Magneto and had seen both his best and his worst, and had cared about him through it all. So maybe it just made her happy to see him with most of the worst stripped away, and with a chance to remake his life into something filled with the best of him.

Unfortunately, it was all too easy for her mind to cast back across the years, back to the Savage Land, to that moment in time when she'd offered her heart to Magneto only to have it handed gently back to her as he chose a path down which she could not follow him. Joseph, she knew, would never make the same choice that Magneto had. And so, she mused, if her heart was still available to offer him, he might very well accept it and undo the hurt of that day so long ago.

"Ahem." Jean cleared her throat, her green eyes boring into Rogue.

Rogue flushed, startled to realize that she and Joseph had been staring at each other. Joseph also seemed suddenly flustered. Without looking at either woman, he set his dishes in the sink and left with a mumbled comment about needing to finish patching the mansion roof.

Rogue watched him go and then slowly turned to face Jean. "Don't read me the riot act, sugah, ah ain't lookin' fo' a greener pasture."

The other woman was still pale, but there was a spark of challenge in her eyes. "Are you sure of that, Rogue?"

Rogue felt a surge of annoyance. "Of course ah'm sure!" She sighed. "Joseph just reminds me a' the might-have-beens is all."

Jean nodded carefully and took another sip of her water. "Not that it's any of my business, but I'm glad to hear that." A hint of a smile curled at the corners of her mouth.

Rogue found her annoyance evaporating. She leaned back in her seat and propped her feet up on a second chair with an exaggerated sigh. "Y'know, ah've only really fallen f' two men in mah life—Magneto an' Remy. Ah wish somebody could tell me what in the world those two have in common so ah could figure out what mah type is."

This time Jean really did smile as humor overcame nausea. "Oh I don't know. I see a few similarities..."

Rogue looked over at her sharply, surprised by her tone. "Like what, sugah? Magneto was one a the most powerful mutants on the planet, a visionary an' a leader. He was the kind of man who could change the whole world."

Jean's expression was completely unreadable. "And Remy?"

Rogue closed her eyes as the familiar tingle swept through her, tightening her stomach and making her feel like her blood was suddenly rushing through her veins. "Remy?" She leaned her head back over the top of the chair and stared at the ceiling. "Remy makes me forget ah can't touch people."

Jean was silent for a while, and Rogue finally lifted her head to look at her. Jean gave her a sympathetic smile. "It sounds like you have a pretty good problem there. Two men: one you admire... and one you love."

_Love… but don't admire? _Cold fingers wrapped themselves around Rogue's stomach and squeezed.

Jean seemed to understand how deeply her words had cut. She said nothing as she slowly levered herself to her feet and shuffled out. Rogue watched her go, a feeling akin to terror building inside her. _Is it possible ta be happy lovin' a man if ah can't respect him? _she wondered, but then quickly squashed the thought. Their relationship was difficult enough already and she wasn't fool enough to believe that a person couldn't be worthwhile just because they weren't a Xavier or a Magneto. Everybody had their role to fill. She sighed softly. Sometimes she just wished that Remy would put a little more effort into filling his.

#-#-#-#

Bobby walked out into the crisp autumn sunshine, whistling cheerfully. In a fit of mercy, Scott had canceled the morning practice session, giving Bobby an extra couple of hours to snuggle with his wonderfully chilly wife. Ironically enough, it was the one morning that Remy had gotten up early, intending to go into the city as soon as the session was over. He'd come by and knocked on the Drake's door on his way out, coffee in one hand and a scowl on his face for Scott having so rudely canceling practice on the one day he was planning to be on time.

Bobby walked across the drive, car keys jangling in one hand. Remy had asked him to take the Ferrari into the city, ostensibly to have it worked on, but mostly because he wanted to park it someplace secure and leave it for a while. The rumors they had been hearing—about Draxar in particular, but also less specific rumblings of mutant trouble—had convinced Remy to lower his profile. Getting rid of the car was a necessary step in that.

The car was already out, to Bobby's surprise, parked on the edge of the drive. The day-glo paint job shone painfully bright in the sun. Cannonball was standing in front of the hood, eyes shaded as he studied it. From his stance and the tell-tale rag trailing from one hand, Bobby guessed that he was putting the finishing touches on a fresh wax job.

Bobby found himself chuckling. Sam's infatuation with the Ferrari was a long-standing joke, for which the X-Men rode him mercilessly at times. Still, since he was the only other person beside Bobby and himself that Remy allowed to drive the car, the others couldn't disparage him too much.

"Morning, Sam," Bobby said, coming up beside him.

"Mornin'," Sam replied. He glanced over at Bobby, taking note of the keys in his hand. "Ya plannin' ta take her out?" There was a hidden note of wistfulness in his voice.

For Sam's sake, Bobby tried to hide his lack of enthusiasm. "Just to the shop. Remy's off doing something or other, and he asked me to take it in to the city for him." To be perfectly honest, he would rather stay at the mansion. He'd made himself a goal of wheedling Hank out of his lab for at least two hours that day, and a trip into New York was going to severely cut into his time. However, he could hardly say no when Remy, who was juggling so much, asked him for a favor.

On a sudden whim, he tossed the keys to Sam. "You want to drive?"

Sam caught them by reflex, a grin stretching his face. "Really? Ya don't think Gambit'll mind? New York's a far piece."

"Nah." Bobby waved him off. Actually, he didn't think Remy would mind at all, given that the car was likely to be gone for a couple of months. The Cajun had once joked privately that he would probably just give the car to Sam someday as payment for all the hours of care he'd put into it.

The two of them set off. Bobby was pleasantly surprised by how well the younger X-Man handled the car's racing clutch. It required at aggressive touch, but Sam seemed completely comfortable as he moved them in and out of the moderate traffic. Bobby reflected sourly that Sam was a good deal more mature than Bobby had been at his age. He suspected it might be Cable's influence. Cable struck him as having the same kind of life philosophy Remy had, despite how different their personalities were.

The two mutants talked companionably all the way to New York, and were equally embarrassed by the time they got there by the number of women who honked at them on the highway. Bobby showed Sam the way to the garage. As they pulled into the underground structure, Bobby noted the level of security and was reasonably impressed. But considering the vehicles they could see as they pulled up to the small office, the security seemed appropriate. Bobby could just imagine what kind of havoc a skilled set of carjackers could wreak if they managed to get into the place.

Sam got out of the car, craning his neck to look past the barricades at the cars parked in the nearest row. "Would ya look at this place? It's like walkin' into a showroom. Lotus, Lamborghini, Ferrari..."

Bobby laughed at his excitement. "Down boy."

Sam glanced at him sidelong. "Ya got any idea how Gambit's payin' foh this? Ah mean, ah've looked up the going price foh the car--" he waved at the Ferrari, "an' there ain't anything cheap about takin' care of it, either. Parts, labor, you name it. Ya can tell just from lookin' around here, even. Ah'll bet it costs more ta keep a car here per week than most folks pay per month foh rent."

Bobby kept the reaction off his face with an effort of will. _Sam, you are way too observant for a country boy_, he thought ruefully. _Bringing you along today was probably a bad idea._

He met the younger man's curious gaze and shrugged. "Remy's never made a secret of the fact that he has money."

"Ah guess. It just seems ta me that somebody that's retired from bein' a thief would..." His eyebrows quirked, reflecting his thoughts, "Ah don't know... give all the money ta charity or somethin'."

Bobby smiled at the thought. Remy actually did give a fair amount to charity, but he could hardly tell Sam that. The kid was just too smart. Plus, that wasn't what Sam had been referring to anyway. He found his smile dimming.

"No matter what he thinks about stealing now, Remy'd never give all his money away." And, in fact, if he somehow lost his current fortune, Bobby was certain he wouldn't hesitate to find a way to replenish it, by whatever means presented themselves. It was something he'd puzzled out about Remy some time earlier and understood, though he couldn't entirely agree with it.

"What makes ya say that?"

Bobby frowned, debating what he could say that wouldn't be an intrusion into Remy's privacy. "I guess it comes from growing up on the street. It's hard to be any poorer than that." Bobby shrugged. "I think Remy just wants to make sure he'll never be in that position again." Considering some of the things Remy had said about his childhood, Bobby couldn't entirely blame him. Poverty was an old fear that probably wouldn't ever go away.

"Hmm." Sam looked down at his feet, considering. "Ah guess ah can understand that. Ah left home partly because ah didn't want ta be a poor farmer all mah life." He looked up at Bobby. "Ya know, ya just don't seem like the type ta be best friends with someone like Gambit. No offense meant ta either of ya," he hastened to add.

Bobby shook his head. "None taken." That was one of the reasons he liked Sam. Of all the X-Men, he was perhaps the most accepting of people's differences. Bobby didn't know if it was because he'd been given a purer heart than the rest of them, or if it was simply the old fashioned courtesy his parents had taught him. But whatever the reason, he was probably the only person who could make such a statement to Bobby without drawing an angry response.

Bobby shrugged uncomfortably under Sam's expectant gaze. "I guess I'm just the first person who ever really took the time to get to know him."

Sam grinned. "Don't ever let Storm or Rogue hear ya say that."

Bobby couldn't help but join him. "Well, Storm's maybe an exception and Rogue—" His laughter turned sardonic. "I love Rogue to death, but there are some days when I really just want to kick her."

Sam started to laugh as well. "She'd knock ya all the way ta Brazil if ya did."

"You notice I haven't tried it."

The conversation faded as the made their way into the small but plush office, where Bobby went through the standard routine of paperwork to leave the Ferrari with them. Sam occupied himself watching the television set up in one corner of the small waiting area, which appeared to be tuned to a news channel. The volume was turned way down, but that didn't seem to perturb him.

Bobby was just finishing up when Sam sat bolt upright in his chair, his expression filled with both shock and horror. "Oh mah-- Bobby get over here!"

Alarmed, Bobby ran over to where he crouched by the TV., searching for the volume controls. "What is it?"

"Ah don't believe it! Mystique just shot Senator Creed."

"_What?_" Bobby stared at the silenced television broadcast as the two employees also hurried over. As he watched, the news report obligingly replayed the event. Graydon Creed was just stepping up to the podium for what looked like a press conference when Mystique jumped out, her spray of bullets taking down the Senator and several aides standing behind him. The massacre was played out for them in utter silence, making the entire thing all the more eerie.

Bobby could only shake his head. "We'd better get home," he told Sam, nudging the other X-Man away from the TV.

"What? Oh. Yeah." Sam allowed Bobby to herd him away, before the two who manned the garage's front counter could become suspicious of them for recognizing a mutant terrorist on sight. Luckily, the two workers seemed intent on the news coverage, talking animatedly among themselves, and paid little attention as Bobby picked up his copy of the paperwork and slipped quietly out the door.

#-#-#-#

Remy stared at the envelope in his hands, debating. He'd been over it twice now, searching for anything that might indicate the letter was booby trapped. As far as he could tell it was clean, which made him doubly wary. He couldn't think of a single reason for Raven Darkholme to be contacting him through the Guild.

After another moment's contemplation, he picked up a letter opener from his desk, carefully slit the edge of the envelope and extracted the single sheet within. The letter inside was short and written in Raven's familiar script.

_Remy,_

_The war between mutants and humans begins today whether we want it to or not, and I intend to see to it that mutants make the first strike. I'm sure you have been hearing the same things I have, so I expect you'll understand why it was necessary to take the first move away from the humans. I also expect you to make sure my daughter isn't caught in the crossfire on this one. If anything happens to her, be assured that I will hunt you down and kill you._

_Regards,_

_Mystique_

Remy read the letter through twice, a feeling of dread congealing in his stomach. Whatever Mystique intended to do, he was certain it was too late for him to intervene. She wouldn't have allowed the letter to reach him otherwise. He smiled grimly. Raven always had had impeccable timing. And whatever she was doing, he could be dead certain the X-Men were going to get hit by the storm of repercussions.

Galvanized by the thought, Remy shoved himself back from his desk and headed for the door. He had intended to spend the day catching up on some of his Guild responsibilities, but now he had the feeling he should get back to the mansion. He threw open the door to his office and nearly collided with Artur, who was standing just outside, hand raised to knock.

"Have you heard?" Artur asked him, his agitation clear both in his voice and the fact that he dropped the honorary "Guildmaster" when addressing Remy.

The knot in Remy's stomach tightened painfully. "Non. What's happened?"

"It's all over the television." Remy stepped aside as Artur moved into the room. He went over and picked up the TV remote, flipping quickly through channels until he settled on the one he wanted.

Remy watched the news coverage with a sense of stunned horror as the cameras once again replayed the footage of Senator Creed's assassination. Raven hadn't even used her powers to hide her identity when she'd done it, which was entirely unexpected. It was a declaration of sorts, that a known mutant terrorist had just targeted and killed the poster boy of the anti-mutant movement. And, unfortunately, it was just about the most inflammatory thing she could have done.

"Saints, Raven, have y' lost y' mind?" he muttered, and was rewarded by a puzzled look from Artur.

"Do you know her?"

Remy shrugged, deciding to skirt the issue. "We've crossed paths in de past." He turned to Artur. "Y' realize what kind o' mess dis gon' be?"

The other man nodded, his expression somber. "What do you want me to do?"

Remy sorted through his thoughts. He was still a little unused to people looking to him for the answers to those kinds of questions, but it wasn't hard for him to figure out what needed to be done.

"Bring anybody who's at risk down into de Guild complex. Obvious mutants, anybody dat would be a likely target f' pro-human attacks. It's gon' get nasty out dere f' a lil' while."

Artur nodded thoughtfully. "We're going to have to do some housecleaning. Those portions of the complex haven't been used for years." He ran a hand through his graying hair. "The last time the Guild went underground was during World War II."

Remy paused as the meaning of the date sank in. He hadn't spent much time exploring the extent of the New York complex. He'd just assumed that it would be like New Orleans, where the living quarters inside the underground tunnels were always very habitable so that the thieves and their families could disappear if the Assassins decided to mount a major offensive.

"How badly out o' date are we?" he asked with a sense of trepidation.

Artur pursed his lips. "As far as security is concerned, we're not. That has always been kept up to par, and we completely revamped the system about five or six years ago after that band of tunnel-dwellers was massacred. None of our sensor picked up on the killers." He shrugged, oblivious to his Guildmaster's sudden paleness. "It's a good thing the complex doesn't intersect those tunnels. We could have had a very big problem."

Artur shook his head, dismissing the topic. "We have a lot of work to do to if we want to bring the living quarters up to a reasonable standard, though. Almost everything down there is 1940's vintage. We'll have to check all of the plumbing, and I know some of the wiring is bad..." He looked at Remy. "How many people are we talking about? We can probably do a small portion pretty easily."

Remy was silent for a moment as he clung desperately to his composure. Although he'd been aware of the New York Guild at the time, he hadn't really put together the fact that the Morlocks would have been literally in their backyard. It had been a breach of courtesy not to have let the Guild know he was working in their territory, but, considering how it had turned out, he was unspeakably grateful that he hadn't.

A chill scrabbled down his spine as the memories resurfaced. He shoved them back down into the graves in his mind, silently reciting the solemn promise he had made to himself that it would not happen again. Not ever. Not to any innocent, if he had anything to say about it.

Artur was watching him with a mixture of wariness and concern. "Guildmaster?"

Remy focused on him, his expression carefully schooled, but he knew Artur had not missed the slip. He took a deep breath.

"What would it take t' be ready t' bring de entire Guild t' ground if we had to?"

Artur blanched slightly. "A lot. It would probably break us for a couple of months, at least in terms of operating assets."

"How long would it take?"

Artur shot him an odd look. "That depends on how much you want to pay." He paused. "And how quiet you want to be." Then his eyes narrowed, as if he could read Remy's thoughts.

"You aren't honestly thinking of—"

"Oui. I am." Remy cut him off. "I realize New York ain' New Orleans, but de guild should've taken care o' dis long ago. Dat's what dis complex was designed for—t' give de t'ieves an' dere families a safe place t' go. Now, dere's a real possibility we gon' need it, an' you're tellin' me we can't 'cause nobody's had de foresight t' keep de place up?"

Remy found himself pacing agitatedly in front of Artur and forced himself to stop. He was surprised by how angry the lack of preparation made him, and he had a momentary flashback to Scott Summers berating him for not keeping the tanks on the Blackbird topped at all times. It was something that had happened when Remy had first joined the X-Men, but it had stayed with him. Scott had been furious that he hadn't immediately refueled the Blackbird, despite the fact that the other plane was flyaway ready. It was something that he hadn't understood at the time, but was now surprised to realize that he did. It might be unlikely, but people could die from something as stupidly simple as not refueling an airplane, if they suddenly needed it and it wasn't ready. People he lived with, worked with and loved. He wasn't about to let the same kind of shortsightedness put his guild at risk, either.

"I wan' it done, Artur. Y' got two weeks t' make de complex useable and t' bring in whatever supplies an' furnishings y' can."

The older man looked like he might protest for a moment, but then he swallowed it and nodded sharply. "Yes, Guildmaster. What about cost?"

Remy met his questioning gaze evenly. "Don' worry about cost. I'll make sure y' have de resources y' need."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Remy held tightly to the handlebars of his bike, adrenaline sliding through him like the touch of a live wire. He forced himself to keep to a sedate pace through Manhattan's afternoon traffic as he debated what to do about the three dark sedans that had taken up stations around him. He had a number of choices, none of which were terribly appealing.

The flat case tucked inside his coat with its precious and dangerous contents felt unnaturally heavy as it flapped against his side. Once again he'd had to steal the CD from a murder scene, and once again he had little idea who had located the disk or how. Despite that uncertainty, he was grateful that whoever had done it was unfamiliar with the business of data theft. They'd reduced the interior of the little computer shop and its occupants to ribbons, but had left an appalling amount of the sensitive information intact. With Dyson's help, Remy had managed to download a partial copy of the decrypted disk from a protected off-site server.

Remy saw the place where the flanking sedans would make their move, and with some apprehension, decided to go along with it. He could probably outrun them on his bike—guaranteed, if he used his powers—but that was a bad idea today. The last thing he needed was to draw attention to himself with the city still reeling from Creed's assassination that morning. He was pretty certain he knew what was coming, and though it might get unpleasant, he doubted they would be stupid enough to mess with him in any serious manner.

Just as he expected, a few blocks ahead the car beside him gunned ahead and cut sharply in front of him. The trailing car rode up behind him, effectively forcing him to pull over against the line of cars parked along the side of the street. Immediately, several men in dark suits got out of the cars. Though none were obvious about it, the men kept their hands close to the weapons holstered beneath their jackets, their expressions universally wary. Remy spread his hands obligingly, keys dangling from one finger.

"Mr. LeBeau, if you'd come with us, there's someone who wants to talk to you." The lead goon's tone was very polite, but lined with familiar steel. He could afford to be polite, since his job generally included killing anyone who didn't cooperate.

Remy grinned back at him. "A secret admirer, huh? I'm flattered." He looked over the group of men, instinctively categorizing them. When he found the one who was at the bottom of the totem pole, he flicked his keys towards him. Fingers tightened on gun stocks as the man snagged the keys out of the air and gave Remy a questioning look.

"Make sure y' don' scratch de paint." He swung his leg over the seat of the bike and walked toward the man who had addressed him, keeping his hands open and in view.

The goons traded skeptical glances, but said nothing more as they escorted Remy to the back seat of one of the cars. As he climbed in, the goon to whom he'd given his keys went over and started the bike.

Then the caravan got underway, and Remy settled himself for the ride. He occasionally caught one of his guards glancing askance at him and kept his chuckle to himself. Young and dressed in badly torn jeans, with his trademark duster showing obvious signs of wear, he hardly looked like the head of a Thieves Guild.

The left Manhattan behind, and Remy soon saw rows of warehouses to either side of the car. He refused to be intimidated. If they had in mind to dispose of him quietly out here, they would be in for a tremendously painful surprise.

Eventually, they turned toward one of the buildings. A man dressed identically to the ones escorting Remy rolled the large door aside to allow them to drive in.

The warehouse was big and empty, save for the white limousine that waited for them near the center in a pool of sunlight falling through a high skylight. As they came to a stop, the back door of the limousine opened and a man stepped out.

Remy wasn't at all surprised to see the Kingpin. At the goons' urging, he climbed out of the car and, after a moment's consideration, removed his sunglasses. The Kingpin didn't like people keeping their eyes hidden. He would consider it an insult for Remy to keep the Ray-Bans. Unfortunately, he also knew how sensitive the mutant was to light, and had deliberately chosen his parking space to put Remy at a disadvantage. It was a subtle indicator that the Kingpin was less than happy with him at the moment.

The goons stayed back as Remy walked across to where the Kingpin waited.

"Bonsoir," he greeted the fat man courteously.

The Kingpin's flat expression didn't change. "I thought I advised you to stay out of this Draxar business."

Remy gave him a wry smile. He might now be Guildmaster, but the Kingpin did not yet consider them equals. "Y' did. I decided not t' take y' advice."

The Kingpin's eyes narrowed slightly. "I suppose that is your right, but I take exception to you getting my boys killed because of it."

Remy couldn't argue that one. He'd sent the disk to the Kingpin's people because he'd been afraid of something like this happening. Still, he wasn't the only one who had been playing the odds.

"Y' people had de disk f' days," he reminded the Kingpin. "If y' were dat concerned y' could've refused de job." Remy studied the sunglasses in his hand. "De only t'ing it would have cost y' was de data on it."

The other reason he'd sent Bobby to one of the Kingpin's hackers was because he knew they'd take a copy of the data for themselves. Remy was fairly certain the Kingpin knew a good deal more about Draxar than he did, and he'd hoped that the disk might spark something that would lead him to a little better understanding of what he was dealing with. It had done exactly that, in fact, though with deadlier consequences than Remy had wanted.

The Kingpin gave Remy an appraising stare. "I suppose we have both lost, then, since the disk was destroyed."

Remy kept his face empty of expression. That was as close to an admission he would ever hear from the Kingpin. Obviously he had seen the information, and probably knew that Remy had a copy as well. He shrugged nonchalantly. "Dat's de way it goes sometimes, neh?"

"Indeed." The Kingpin shifted his bulk, his demeanor suddenly becoming much more casual. "Tell me, Remy, have you ever been to Bali?"

Remy lifted an eyebrow. "White sand beaches, clear blue water, friendly native women? Oui. It's nice if y' like dat sort o' t'ing."

The Kingpin smiled. "I've heard it's a paradise. I thought I might take a vacation... I was planning to leave today, as a matter of fact, but this morning's events have given me a short reprieve." He turned away on the tail of that statement and carefully lowered his bulk into the limousine's back seat and closed the door. After a moment, the darkened window rolled down, revealing a slice of his face. "If you see her, be sure to give Raven my regards."

Without waiting for a response, he signaled to his driver and the limousine pulled away. His goons took that as the signal to leave. Without another word or even a glance in Remy's direction, they climbed into their cars and fell in behind the Kingpin.

Remy watched them go, his mind churning. The warning was clear enough. Raven's stunt had postponed something... something that was so big even the Kingpin had decided to get out before it hit. For a moment, Remy wished heartily that the Professor was still at the mansion. It would have been a simple matter to feed the information to the X-Men through him without risking himself or the Guild.

Shaking his head in frustration, Remy walked over to where his bike had been circumspectly left for him. Somehow, he was going to have to find a way to warn Cyclops.

#-#-#-#

Dark storm clouds blew in as Remy started home, filling the sky with heavy gray clouds. The rain came only moments later—fat, cold drops that hammered into him like tiny knives. By the time he reached the mansion, Remy was exhausted, soaked to the bone and shivering so hard his teeth rattled. The storm was a good thing, he was certain, despite his own misery. The widespread heavy rains had effectively capped the budding violence in and around the major cities of the East Coast caused by Senator Creed's assassination.

He didn't stop to change since his mutant kinesthetic sense told him all of the other X-Men were gathered in the War Room. No doubt he had already missed out on a great deal of information and planning, but there was no help for it. Avoiding the Kingpin would have bought him more trouble than it was worth.

With a thoroughly miserable sigh, he wrapped his dripping coat more tightly about his frame and headed toward the elevators.

"Gambit, where on Earth have ya been?" Rogue pounced on him the moment he walked into the War Room. Her imperious tone, piled on top of his physical discomfort, snapped the reins on his temper almost instantly.

"None o' your business, girl," he retorted and saw her jerk back in surprise, her expression darkening. He regretted it the moment he said it, but Cyclops jumped in before he could decide what to do next.

"You haven't been answering your communicator and we have been unable to locate you with Cerebro."

Remy dragged his attention away from the woman who glared at him in angry silence and turned toward Cyclops. He pulled his communicator from its customary position inside his jacket collar and glanced at it curiously. The power indicator, usually a tiny red glow at the center of the "X", was dead.

He shrugged. At least that explained why no one had contacted him. "Must've shorted out in de rain or somet'ing." He tossed the communicator down on the large oval table.

Cerebro, of course, had been unable to locate him because it had been instructed to do so. When Remy had first started "working" for the Professor, he'd requested a means to avoid having his whereabouts recorded by the mutant tracking device. Xavier had obliged him with a set of access privileges that allowed him to modify Cerebro's default search parameters.

Cyclops stared at him appraisingly for a moment, but then shook his head, dismissing the subject. "All right. Just make sure you pick up another one before you go anywhere." He expanded his gaze to take in the rest of the X-Men who were gathered around the table. "Although, until the shock of Creed's death wears off, I'd prefer that you all stayed close to home. We don't need to attract attention."

The X-Men exchanges startled glances, but no one offered a protest. Remy debated with himself for one final minute, but then gave in to the overwhelming need to push the X-Men toward the real problem. He would just have to manage whatever damage resulted.

Quietly, he pulled the CD out of his coat. "I t'ink I c'n offer somet'ing here." The X-Men focused on him with collective interest. Cyclops arched one eyebrow speculatively. Several steps behind Cyclops, Bobby favored him with a skeptical "I sure hope you know what you're doing" look.

Remy offered Cyclops the disk. "Don' ask me where dis came from, 'cause I ain' gon' tell y'. I don' even know exactly what's on it. All I know is dat it's got somet'ing t' do wit' why Mystique decided t' blow her own kid's brains out."

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Rogue's expression of outrage and grimaced to himself. It was a coldly irreverent thing to say, but he needed the shock value to distract the X-Men from wondering how he'd come up with such sensitive information on Mystique.

Logan alone was unperturbed. "Mystique's feelin's about the Senator ain't exactly been a secret." He chewed on the end of an unlit cigar as he spoke. "What makes ya so sure she had another reason fer cappin' him?"

Remy shrugged and decided to play dumb. That was the only story that would fool Wolverine. They had too many common acquaintances. "All I c'n tell y' is what I was told, mon ami."

Remy was often amazed by how willing Logan seemed to be to accept him as a minor player in the circles they both frequented. The Canuck was the one X-Man who had the resources to figure out just who the mutant Gambit was, and what he'd been doing for the past eleven years. Remy had expected Logan to do his homework eventually and come up with a fair chunk of the truth, but if he had, he had yet to say anything to Remy about it.

Logan crossed his arms. "How much do ya trust the source?" He nodded toward the disk.

Remy gave him a flash of his gambler's grin. "I don'. But de information's good, neh?"

Wolverine only grunted in response. Cyclops held out his hand, and Remy gave him the disk.

"Well, let's see what we've got," Cyclops said.

#-#-#-#

Remy closed his eyes and let the hot water of the shower pour down over his face. Numbers danced behind his eyelids as he struggled to make sense of the information he'd given the X-Men. Unfortunately the financial reports, though decrypted, had all been annotated with obscure initials that shed little light on the source or destination of the money. What alarmed him was the size of the dollar sign. The reports spanned almost three years, adding up to several billion dollars. It screamed military, and the incomplete report he'd recovered implied that the money was for some kind of technology development. All in all, it sounded like the government had some kind of new mutant control initiative in work. Remy felt like kicking himself for not paying closer attention to Draxar.

At least he'd managed to get the X-Men involved without casting too much suspicion on himself. Mystique had bought them a little time. He could only hope it would be enough.

It took a long time for the steaming hot water to drive the chill from his bones, but he eventually turned the shower off and climbed out. Intending to do nothing more than dive straight into bed, he wrapped the towel loosely around his waist in at least a pretense of modesty and walked out into the hall. He stopped short at the sight of the woman who waited for him, arms crossed and a scowl plastered on her face.

Her scowl immediately gave way to mortified surprise that shaded into anger, as if he'd purposely tried to embarrass her. Remy noted the bright flush of her cheeks and decided that he might very well have done so had he known she was there, but she'd been standing so still his mutant power hadn't registered her.

It was an unexpected advantage. Rogue was so frightened of her own sexuality that she usually refused to admit it existed. Remy held some sympathy for her fear, but the truth was that humans were sexual creatures. No matter what her ethical or moral standpoint, it was something she'd have to deal with, sometime and in some way, before she had any hopes of maintaining a relationship. And he, of course, being the other end of said relationship, was stuck in emotional limbo until she finally did decide to deal with it. Unfortunately, their mutual frustration meant that any situation that involved a sexual subtext was almost guaranteed to blow up violently.

Steeling himself against the inevitable, Remy met Rogue's angry green gaze. "Did y' want t' talk 'bout somet'ing, chere?"

She blinked, her expression changing ever so slightly as if she had realized that he was willing to avoid the topic of sex if she was. He had to throttle a snort of sour amusement. _Let's fight about de t'ing y' came here t' fight about, eh, chere?_ he questioned her silently. _Wouldn' do t' get distracted from de matter at hand._

Rogue spent a moment gathering her thoughts, but by the end of that moment her gaze had narrowed along with her focus. "Where were ya today?" she demanded.

Remy felt the familiar burst of anger, but grabbed hold of it before it could spiral out of his control. _I'm gon' keep m' temper f' at least one round o' dis_, he promised himself. It was a promise he was rarely able to keep, despite his intentions. He absolutely hated Rogue's attitude that she had a right to know everything about where he went and what he did—past, present and future.

"I t'ink I answered dat question earlier," he told her.

The barb struck squarely, punctuated by Rogue's sharp indrawn breath. "Ah really hate it when ya pull this garbage, Remy. What happened ta lettin' me into ya life, huh?" Her glare was backlit by hurt and fear. "Or was that just another empty promise? Ya think one night o' dinner an' dancin' is gonna dazzle me ta the point ah don't notice ya sneakin' away from the mansion every chance ya get?"

The accusation hurt a lot more than Remy wanted to admit. That too-brief evening had been the first small step in the right direction in a long time. For a short time he'd truly enjoyed her company and felt the almost intoxicating joy of being able to be himself with her. To have her throw it back in his face as a cheap parlor trick meant to deceive her was a cruel knife in his heart.

"Is dat really what y' t'ink dat night was all about?" He was aware that their voices were rising, and that pretty soon the entire house would be witness to yet another round of their very public personal life. At the moment, however, he was too hurt to care. "'Cause if it is, I don' t'ink dere's any point in tryin' t' make dis t'ing work any more."

Rogue growled at him in wordless frustration and threw her hands up in the air. "Ah don't know _what_ that night was all about!" Her eyes shone with unspilled tears. "That's the whole problem!" She bit her lip as if the pain was the only thing that maintained her composure. "Why won't ya just tell me?"

"Why won' y' jus' ask me?" he shot back immediately.

"What do ya think ah just did?!"

Remy shook his head. "No, Rogue. Y' _demanded_. Y' didn' ask."

She stopped dead, staring at him. He could see the thoughts churning behind her eyes, but had no idea what might be coalescing out of the mix. After a moment, she took a deep breath.

"Ya were gone foh hours, Remy. Nobody had any idea where ya were, ya wouldn' answer ya communicator, Cerebro couldn' find ya... Ah was terrified ya were lyin' dead in some alley somewhere because somebody saw ya eyes an' decided t' get even f' Senator Creed! Ah'm sorry if ah sounded demandin'." Her voice softened. "Ah was jus' worried."

Remy stared at her, torn. He could simply accept the apology and let the whole thing go, at least until the next time this happened. It would become just one more short-lived fight and relative peace would return. Or he could push the issue, and maybe get a chance to broach the real problem. It would probably cause a lot of hurt feelings and subject him to the cold shoulder for a good long while, but that was beginning to have more appeal than taking the easy way out. At least it would be forced into the open.

"I know y' were," he agreed softly. "If I'd known m' communicator was dead, I would've checked in." He made a small gesture. "Dat ain' de point."

"What do ya mean?" She was wary rather than angry now.

Remy took a deep, steadying breath. He doubted this was going to go over very well at all. "I mean dat I really resent y' turnin' into a mother hen every time I step out o' y' direct line o' sight. I'm a big boy, Rogue. I c'n take care o' myself wit'out y' help."

Rogue stiffened, her cheeks flushing brightly with anger this time instead of embarrassment. "Well, ah'm so sorry ah bothered ta care about what happens to ya!" Eyes threatening to spill over once again, she spun on her heel and marched away from him. "An' here ah thought X-Men were supposed ta take care o' their own!"

Remy watched her go with a sinking sense of dread in his heart and a ball of fury in his stomach. For all his power as Guildmaster, for all his contacts among the wealthy and influential, for all the favors given and owed, and for all the secrets he kept... he was still completely unable to have a single real conversation with the woman he'd had the overwhelming misfortune to fall in love with.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

"So, what are we looking at here?" Scott Summers surveyed the table expectantly. Seated with him were Logan, Ororo and Hank who, along with Jean, formed a core advisory group whose input Scott valued highly. He often spoke to them individually to avoid giving the impression that he led by committee, but this was an unusual occasion. He was hoping that between them, they could make sense of recent events and the information Gambit has brought them.

Logan shrugged in response to the question. "Government's got a new anti-mutant program goin'."

"That does not completely explain Mystique's involvement, I do not believe." Ororo's brows were drawn in a pensive frown.

"Don't have to. The woman's crazy."

Hank smiled. "Even so, she does nothing without a reason. Perhaps we should ask Rogue. She might have some insight into Mystique's motivations."

"Maybe." Scott wasn't entirely convinced. Rogue had been a young teenager when she was with Mystique and the Brotherhood. He wasn't certain how well she could understand someone as complex and twisted as Mystique based on that childhood experience.

"I don't think right now would be the best time to ask, however." Hank's expression was studiously neutral.

"You heard that, too, huh?" Scott couldn't help his sour tone.

Ororo sighed. "Voices carry easily in this house. It did not sound like anything new."

Logan gave a snort of disgust. "Never is, darlin'."

"Despite that," Scott jumped in before the conversation could devolve into gossip, "it's not really any of our business." He let his gaze roam the table. "What I was really hoping for from you three was some kind of insight into where this information came from and what level of threat we should be reading into it."

He had their undivided attention once again. "Logan, Ororo. Do you have any idea who might have given this—" He tapped the disk case that lay on the table beneath his fingertips, "--to Gambit and why?"

Logan and Ororo glanced at each other briefly.

"The who coulda been just about anybody," Logan answered. "Cajun knows an awful lot o' folks in the business, even fer a thief."

The statement caught Scott's curiosity. "What do you mean?"

Logan frowned thoughtfully, weighing his words. "As far as I can tell from what I've heard, Gambit's a fully ranked Guild thief. That means he's good, 'cause the Guilds won't give the rank ta anyone who ain't." He shrugged. "Still, it's a specialized skill an' the Guild guards its territory pretty fiercely, so thieves tend ta be a little... isolated sometimes. They do their own thing an' don't mess with anybody, so nobody messes with them."

Logan leaned back in his chair, his expression contemplative. "I ran into Gambit a while back in Madripoor. Took him ta an old haunt o' mine-- a pretty rough place full o' people who like their privacy, if ya get my drift."

Scott nodded and Logan grinned at his memories. "I figured I was runnin' a fair risk takin' a stranger inside, but Gumbo's the sort who c'n manage an unfriendly crowd, so I went ahead an' did it."

"What happened?"

Logan's eyebrows twitched. "I don't think there was a regular in the place that didn't know him already. I'm still wonderin' how we never crossed paths considerin' how much time he'd obviously spent there."

Scott thought about it for a few minutes, but then shoved the thoughts aside as something he couldn't hope to answer right now. Gambit was a continuing puzzle that alternately frustrated and angered him. The fact that he knew all the same shady characters as Wolverine did not give Scott any sudden burst of understanding.

"So, unless Remy decides to tell us where the information came from, we're not likely to figure it out." Logan nodded and Scott internalized his sigh of frustration. Despite the fact that he would never ask her to, he sometimes wished Jean would lower her high ethical standards and scan Gambit for him. Not necessarily to dig up dirt on him, as some might accuse, but simply to give him some kind of inkling as to how the man's mind worked. Too often he found Gambit's actions to be completely inexplicable.

Scott shook his head softly. "I guess that leads me to my next question: How seriously should we take this? Any guesses as to how accurate the information is?"

Ororo straightened in her seat. "Scott, I do not mean to sound defensive, but if you are suggesting that Gambit has given us false information—"

"No, Storm. That wasn't what I was suggesting." She relaxed slightly as he continued, "I guess I should rephrase that. What I want to know is how _representative_ you believe this information to be. Are we looking at a new Sentinels program or is this just funding for research in mutant genetics? What kind of threat do you see?"

The table was silent for a while. Finally, Hank rapped his claws lightly on the tabletop, drawing their attention. "If the connection with Mystique is real, then my instinct is to believe we are facing a substantial danger. I am convinced she was sending a message by using her true form when she killed Creed. She _wanted_ to be recognized."

Scott found himself nodding and saw Ororo and Logan do the same. "My gut's telling me the same thing, Hank."

Logan cleared his throat. "If ya don't mind, Cyke, I'm gonna do some investigatin' on my own. Means I'll be gon fer a while."

Scott considered the possibilities and then nodded. Logan's background gave him an unparalleled ability to gather information that might shed some light on what was happening. He turned to Storm.

"Ororo, do you think you could try talking to Gambit? If there's anything else about this disk that we ought to know, you're the one he'd be most likely to tell."

Ororo frowned lightly, but nodded in acquiescence. "Very well."

Scott sighed. "All right. I'm going to put the team on alert status for now. Until we have a better idea of what we're facing, I don't think there's much else we can do."

#-#-#-#

"Now that Scott knows about Draxar, aren't you planning to let the X-Men take care of it?" Bobby asked as he pulled the car over into the place Remy pointed out to him. They were at the airport, but well away from the passenger terminals. These hangars were leased by cargo companies and others who wanted to be discreet in their presence.

The rain fell in a steady cascade that was just hard enough to get a person really wet if he stayed out in it for any time at all. It was the third day of solid rain, and the storm system showed no sign of letting up for at least a couple more.

Remy studied their surroundings intently as he answered. "Non. Bringin' de X-Men in was probably de only chance we had o' nippin' dis t'ing in de bud, but I t'ink it's already too late f' dat an' I don' wan' t' see dem end up dead."

Bobby blinked in surprise at the response. Remy wasn't the type to be overly pessimistic, and his respect for the X-Men's fighting ability had never been in question.

"Isn't that a bit of overkill? We are talking about the X-Men."

Remy turned to stare at him, his careful search of the darkness outside the car abruptly abandoned. His irises were glowing like embers, and Bobby had to resist the temptation to be intimidated.

"Whatever Draxar is, it's de cover f' some kind o' military black ops. Normally, dat wouldn' mean all dat much t' a t'ief o' my caliber, but I can' find even a crack in dis one, let alone a way t' break in." Something in his voice sent a tiny chill of apprehension down Bobby's spine as he continued, "De one installation I've been inside, I almost got m'self killed gettin' out of, an' I still don' have a clue what I tripped dat gave me away."

He turned to look out the windshield once more, his gaze roving. "Every instinct I got tells me t' crawl in a hole an' hide 'til dis is over."

Bobby stared at the rain splattering on the windshield for several moments. That was quite possibly the most unlikely thing he'd ever heard out of Remy's mouth.

"O.k... Now you're starting to scare me," he admitted slowly.

Remy glanced over at him, his expression unreadable, and then opened the door of the car and got out.

Thoroughly unsettled, Bobby followed him, turning his collar up against the steady rain. He followed Remy across the parking area to a small door on the side of one of the unmarked hangars. Remy paused then knocked on the metal door, eliciting a loud, hollow boom that echoed throughout the vast empty space beyond. Bobby wished he knew what exactly it was they were doing, but, for once, didn't really feel like asking.

The door opened to reveal the face of a man perhaps a bit older than Bobby but with similar all-American looks, and the business end of an automatic rifle. Remy held his hands away from his body, palms showing. Bobby copied the stance.

The man looked them over, his demeanor and haircut both very military. "You must be Gambit," he told Remy, who nodded.

The man opened the door and gestured them inside. "The Old Man's expecting you."

Bobby followed Remy inside, but found himself hanging back as he absorbed the scene before him. The hangar was a cavernous metal building and the lights, though bright enough to hurt when he looked at them, did not quite illuminate the farthest corners. There were three aircraft parked inside the building. By far the largest was a military-looking cargo plane about the size of a C-17. It was painted in desert camouflage. The large ramp was down, allowing access to the belly. The other two airplanes were fighters. Not being an airplane buff, Bobby couldn't identify them, but he did note the fully-loaded missile racks under each wing.

Scattered around the aircraft and dwarfed by them were various other vehicles and weapons. Whoever these people were, Bobby thought, they were well financed. He saw two Armored Personnel Carriers and a HumVee, as well as something that looked suspiciously like a modern cannon. Men were scattered among the hardware, but Bobby got the distinct impression that they were killing time rather than getting ready for something.

Bobby kept his curiosity to himself as he followed Remy and their guide across the hangar toward a set of tables near the cargo plane's downed ramp. The tables were covered with a scattering of weapons, some of which appeared to be in the midst of repairs. A man standing beside the nearest of the tables looked up as they approached, his command aura unmistakable. Without introduction, Bobby knew this had to be the "Old Man". He looked like he might be in his early fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair cut in a military burr. He was wearing fatigues, also in desert colors, and had a pistol holstered at his hip.

The Old Man walked toward them, his weathered face split in a broad smile. Remy was grinning to. Bobby watched in shock as the Old Man swept Gambit up into a bear hug. They gained the instant attention of the rest of the men in the room, and several of the others drifted over to greet Remy in somewhat more restrained but equally friendly manner. The rest watched the reunion in bemused surprise. Bobby got the feeling they knew just about as much as he did about what was going on.

"So who is this?" The Old Man asked after the initial furor had died down. He nodded toward Bobby.

Remy made introductions. "Bobby Drake, dis is Colonel Matthias Midnight. Colonel, Bobby Drake. Bobby's a Guild t'ief."

The colonel's eyebrow twitched upward respectfully as they shook hands. Then Midnight turned his attention back to Remy.

"I assume all that money you sent me means we have some business to discuss?"

Remy's smile waned. "'Fraid so."

Midnight shrugged. "I figured as much." Then a shadow of his own smile returned as he gestured toward the cargo ramp. "If you gentlemen would like to step into my office... "

Bobby caught Remy's eye as they followed the older man up into the belly of the plane. "So, do I dare ask how you two met?"

Remy's answer was a snort, but Midnight chuckled. "How many years has it been now? Nine?"

"Ten," Remy corrected him.

"Ten," Midnight agreed as he sat down on a large black crate that was strapped to the aircraft's floor. He cocked his head as he studied Remy. "And I would swear you've grown since I last saw you."

"Almos' two inches."

Bobby was sure he saw a flush creep up Remy's cheeks, and he chuckled. "How old were you?" Remy didn't talk about himself much, particularly about his past, and it was tremendously interesting to meet someone who knew him so long ago.

Remy looked like he was debating with himself whether to answer, but then shrugged. "Nineteen."

Midnight leaned toward Bobby, as if warming up to the tale. "See, we--" he waved his arm to indicate the rest of the mercenaries, "were in Iraq during the last few days of the countdown to Desert Storm. My team needed a really good breaker to complete the mission, so I sent to Langley for an expert." His expression reflected a kind of friendly outrage. "They sent me this _child_." He gestured in Remy's direction. Bobby was appropriately surprised. Gambit had been contracting with the C.I.A at nineteen?

"At first I thought me and my boys had been sold down the river. Didn't think there was any way we were going to get _into_ the Iraqi satellite ops center, let alone disable our targets and get out again." He shrugged as if he still found it hard to believe.

Remy grinned, his earlier discomfort gone without a trace. "Tol' y' t' trust me, didn' I?"

Midnight laughed sourly and pointed an accusing finger at Remy. "_You_ gambled my men's lives-- your own included-- and those of a couple dozen pilots in the first bombing wave, on a _guess_."

Bobby turned to look at Remy, startled despite himself. But the Cajun's expression never faltered. "I guessed right."

Midnight dismissed the response with a wave.

Bobby was unable to restrain his curiosity any longer. "What were you doing?"

Remy gave him a sidelong look, his expression one that Bobby had seen only a few times. His chest tightened. That look meant that this was something he was telling Bobby only because he trusted him as a friend.

He shrugged lightly. "Do y' remember de first raids on Baghdad, Bobby? De Iraqis were defenseless 'gainst de stealth fighters 'cause dere radar couldn't see dem. Dey had no idea dey were bein' attacked until de bombs were fallin' on dem."

Bobby remembered well enough. He was only fourteen at the time, but his parents had let him stay up to watch the reports on CNN well into the night.

Remy went on without pausing. "De reason dat raid was so successful was because de Colonel an' his team took out all o' de Iraqis' satellite imaging. Blinded dem."

_And you were the one that got them in_, Bobby thought quietly. He was aware that he probably had the skill at this point to do something similar, but the thought sent little chills scrabbling up his back. One mistake could have altered the course of that war and who knows how many might have died because of it. He wasn't sure he was ready for that kind of responsibility yet.

Bobby shook his head. Despite his long-time difficulty with his powers, he'd been fighting with the X-Men for four years by the time _he_ was nineteen. Maybe it wasn't as different as he thought. There was no way to count the number of lives the X-Men had affected by their actions.

"Why you?" he found himself asking Remy, and received one of the Cajun's eloquent shrugs.

"Deniability. I was a complete unknown. Nobody could've traced me back t' de Pentagon."

"Yeah, but why _you_?" That was part of the answer, but it didn't tell Bobby how a very young and exiled Guild thief had gotten into the espionage business. That took contacts.

Remy gave him an evaluating stare, then pursed his lips as he answered, "I met somebody who was pretty high up at de Pentagon." He shrugged. "She diverted a couple o' jobs my way."

Bobby resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. "Met" meant "slept with" when Remy used that tone of voice. Several names popped into his mind as possible candidates, and Bobby immediately decided he didn't want to know any more.

Remy read him easily and turned to Midnight, his demeanor suddenly businesslike. "But enough reminiscing, neh?"

Midnight's answering smile was filled with wry amusement. "You're the boss. What's the mission?"

"Relocate and protect, mostly." Remy fished out a piece of paper from an inner pocket of his coat, handed it to Midnight. "Bobby here'll be y' main contact." Bobby forced down a surge of annoyance. It would have been nice if Remy had told him beforehand.

He got a glimpse of the list of names as Midnight examined the paper and couldn't help but send Remy a questioning glance. Remy ignored him.

"Dese are all family t' a group o' people I expect t' come under fire sometime soon. I wan' t' make sure nobody c'n use dem f' leverage."

Bobby's mind started whirling, in part because it had never occurred to him. His own parents were on that list, along with Hank's, Sam's and Jean's, Scott's grandparents, and a couple of names he didn't recognize. He had a horrible sinking feeling in his stomach at the thought of someone trying to use his family against him.

Midnight watched Remy appraisingly. "Do these folks know what's going on?" He flicked the edge of the paper.

Remy shook his head. "Non. Y' might as well play it safe an' plan t' snatch dem. I couldn' begin t' tell y' who would be willin' t' cooperate." He motioned to Bobby. "Bobby might be able t' give y' a better feel f' what y' dealin' wit'."

Bobby nodded at Midnight's questioning glance, but then the mercenary shifted his attention back to Remy. "Timetable?"

"Soon." He gave Midnight an apologetic smile. "Can' say better dan dat. Jus' be ready t' go when y' get de word. I don' know how big a window y' gon' get."

Midnight didn't seem perturbed. "It all pays the same. We'll be ready."

Remy stood. "Bobby should be able t' get y' anyt'ing y' need."

Midnight stood as well, and the two men embraced briefly. Bobby was surprised by the depth of the affection he saw reflected there, on both sides. Then Remy left, his duster flapping about his lean frame as he made his way across the hangar.

Midnight watched him go for several moments, then sat back down and focused on Bobby. "So tell me about these people." He tapped the list.

Swallowing his thoughts, Bobby nodded and did what he asked.

#-#-#-#

Andrea Black was a tall woman, heavy boned but not particularly overweight. She had a broad, open face and perhaps the friendliest smile Diedre had ever met. In almost everything, the two women were exact opposites, yet their friendship had endured since childhood. Diedre hadn't spent much time with Andrea in the past few years, mostly because she had become so isolated while Michael was alive. But now that she was starting to learn how to live again, she wanted to change that.

Andrea winced lightly and rubbed her swollen stomach. She was pregnant with twins which were due in about five weeks.

"Are the babies kicking?" Diedre asked. For the first time in her life the prospect of having a baby was beginning to hold some appeal and she was curious.

Andrea smiled. "Wrestling, more like." She dug the heel of one hand into her side where she was apparently being poked.

Diedre took a sip of raspberry tea and tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn. She glanced at the clock, which had not quite reached midnight.

Andrea followed her gaze. "What time did Bobby say he'd be back?"

Diedre shrugged. "He didn't. I don't think Remy told him what they were doing."

Andrea raised an eyebrow. She paused a moment, as if debating what to say. "So what is the Guildmaster really like?" she finally asked.

Diedre had to think about that one. "Complicated," she answered after a bit.

Andrea chuckled. "As opposed to complex?"

Diedre nodded, unable to help a smile. "Well, that too, I guess. Bobby's the only person I know that understands him."

Her statement drew a troubled frown from Andrea and Diedre looked at her questioningly.

Andrea shrugged. "Marcus told me the Guildmaster wanted to work with him. He's really excited about it. He's been wanting to increase his training for a long time, but hasn't had the chance."

Diedre tried to keep the expression off of her face. Marcus Black was one of the best thieves in New York, but Michael hadn't liked him. That was why he hadn't been given the opportunity to grow beyond his present skills. The more distance Diedre gained from her late husband, the more she began to realize what kind of man he'd really been.

Andrea was suddenly apologetic. "I'm sorry, hon. I didn't mean to bring up bad memories."

Diedre shook her head. "It's all right. I'm... getting over it, anyway."

Andrea gave her a grateful smile. "The only reason I was asking was because I wanted to get an idea of what Marc's in for. With the babies due in a couple of weeks..." she trailed off sheepishly. Diedre had no trouble completing the thought. She didn't want her husband being run ragged and away from home all the time on the whim of the Guildmaster, even for the cause of improving his career.

Diedre contemplated the outlines of the ice in her glass. "Bobby claims he's a pretty tough taskmaster, but I think he'll be understanding." Her gaze unfocused as memory impinged on reality. "He almost died protecting Bobby and I." She shook her head to clear it, and looked up at Andrea. "I think, if you and Marcus really love each other, he'll bend over backwards to give you time to be together."

Andrea grinned, looking relieved. "That's no problem then, seeing as I do love him very much."

Diedre shared her smile. There had been a number of times when Bobby had expected to spend the night working, only to have Remy send him away with instructions to take his wife out for the evening. Of course, there were also the nights like tonight, when going out was just a ruse to provide Bobby with an alibi for the X-Men. All in all, Diedre didn't find much reason to complain.

She shook her head. "It's too bad he can't get his own love life straightened out, considering how much effort he puts into helping other people."

Andrea sat up and leaned forward across the table. "Oh, now _this_ sounds interesting." She was grinning conspiratorially. "I hadn't heard anything about a girlfriend. What's she like?"

Diedre flushed, wondering how she could describe Rogue. She knew she couldn't say too much, seeing how the rumor mill ran inside the Guild. Someone would eventually tell Remy. She couldn't imagine that he'd be pleased to have the Guild talking about him and Rogue. The X-Men were bad enough.

"I-- I don't think I can tell you very much. She's--"Diedre realized what she was about to say and smiled sourly. "She's perfect for him, if they don't end up killing each other first."

Andrea laughed, but Diedre found herself turning the assessment over in her mind. She knew that she herself had been a poor choice for a Guildmaster's wife. A man with that kind of power and responsibility needed a very strong woman to be his partner. Diedre was beginning to understand that one of the things she did for her husband was to act as an advisor and sounding board as well as giving love and comfort. She still marveled at how much Bobby valued her opinion. Michael had never cared about what she thought, and she had not possessed the strength or confidence to challenge him.

Andrea seemed oblivious to her thoughts. "Well, it sounds like there may still be some room for competition there. You can imagine what the hot topic has been among the single women. You should hear my sister going on about him with her friends."

Andrea rolled her eyes and Diedre had to laugh. The Guildmaster was always a romantic figure for the young girls of the clans to develop their crushes on, but it was a school girl kind of thing. Most often, a man elected to the position was already married with children of his own.

They were interrupted by a knock on the door, and the tiny chill that whispered across Diedre's skin told her exactly who it was. She jumped up with a grin. Bobby called it "blowing kisses", but it was much more than an endearment. It was his powers brushing against hers, melding automatically as they had done ever since Bobby had changed her form to ice to heal her.

Diedre threw open the door to the Black's apartment and was immediately swept up into a tight hug by her husband. She returned the embrace, ignoring the man who stood behind them, chuckling.

Andrea followed Diedre out of the kitchen, and Diedre pulled away from her husband at the other woman's flustered surprise.

"Guildmaster... Please, won't you come in?"

Remy did so, nodding to Diedre in silent greeting as he passed. He approached Andrea and bowed courteously to her. "You mus' be Andrea." He gave her one of the charming smiles he was famous for. "Marcus didn' exaggerate when he told me how lovely y' are."

Andrea blushed as expected, but rather than look away as Diedre would have done, she met the Guildmaster's gaze, her expression diffident. "I'll bet you say that to all the eight-months-pregnant married women you meet."

Remy laughed outright and put a hand over his heart. "Ma chere, y' wound me."

Diedre was alternately pleased by and jealous of her friend's response. Andrea had always been full of confidence, and so it was no surprise that she could trade lines with the Guildmaster without batting an eye. Diedre kept her sigh to herself. Andrea always had made it look so easy.

"Are we going home?" Diedre asked Bobby.

He nodded. "Provided we can drag Mr. Charming here away."

Looking only partially chastened, Remy glanced back at them. Diedre saw Andrea put a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh.

They said their goodbyes then, and after a few parting words, the three made their way out of the building. Remy paused on the sidewalk outside to light a cigarette.

Diedre tightened her grip on Bobby's hand. "Remy?"

He looked over at her. "Oui, chere?"

"Andrea is worried that if Marcus starts training now he won't have any time for her and the babies."

Remy cocked a surprised eyebrow, and something in his expression made Diedre think that his mind had been somewhere else entirely. However, he didn't seem to have any trouble shifting topics.

"Y' t'ink maybe dis ain' a good time f' him t' start somet'ing new?"

Diedre sucked in her breath, surprised to be asked her opinion on what was entirely thief business. "I don't—That's not my decision to make. I just... thought you would want to know."

She could see him filing the information away, and after a moment he nodded. "T'anks, I'll keep it in mind."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Remy slid out of the open grate behind Marcus, balancing carefully on the slim ledge that ran around the outside of the building as he replaced the grille and tightened the heavy screws that held it in place. The skyscraper housed the corporate headquarters of a large securities company. Their vault had been the target of the two thieves.

Remy had taken Marcus with him on the job for two reasons. The first was to evaluate his skills. Everything he knew about the man was by reputation. He hadn't actually seen him at work, and wanted to get a feel for his skills and weaknesses first hand. The second was that the Guild was quickly growing cash poor as Artur carried out his instructions to revamp the housing area of the complex, and someone needed to turn over a couple of quick, lucrative jobs to make up the difference. Remy might have been able to siphon sufficient funds from his personal finances, but that was forbidden. It created too many possible paths by which government agencies could locate the Guild.

In silent accord, the two men made their way back to the roof of the building, where they paused to repack their gear. Remy was thoroughly pleased with the entire exercise. Marcus was as good as his reputation purported, with the result that they had raided the corporate vault for a healthy chunk of negotiable bearer bonds and gotten out again without incident. And unless someone inventoried the vault's contents, it was unlikely that anyone would discover the theft for quite some time.

Remy had just slung the bag with his gear in it over one shoulder when his spatial sense went wild. Something came screaming down out of the sky at him, too fast for him to react. Too slowly, he dove to the side, and the object slammed into him with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs. He found himself lying on his back on the rough surface of the rooftop, staring up into Rogue's furious eyes. Her gloved hands pinned his arms to the ground and the knee planted in his chest made it difficult to breathe.

Marcus crouched a short ways away, poised but unmoving. In the back of his mind, Remy was pleased by his reaction. Marcus was ready to jump in any direction, but was waiting until he knew more about the threat before he acted. However, any pleasure Remy felt from Marcus' reaction was lost in the cold, sinking horror of knowing Rogue had followed him. Of all the times that she could have decided to actually find out what he did with himself when he was away from her, this was just about the worst she could have picked. And now Remy had an awful lot of decisions to make in very short order about what to tell her.

"'Lo, chere," Remy gave her his most confident grin. No matter what happened, he could not afford to act guilty.

"Don't ya dare 'chere' me, Gambit!" she snarled. "Ya got no right ta call me that. Not evah again, ya hear? Ya _lied_ ta me!" Remy saw the first glimmer of tears as her fingers dug painfully into his forearms.

Marcus' expression was almost comically puzzled. Remy supposed that was hardly a surprise. Most men didn't get attacked by flying mutants intent on starting a lovers' quarrel. However, it was probably enough to reassure the thief that his Guildmaster wasn't in mortal danger. Remy flashed him a hand sign that meant, "Go".

Marcus frowned but began to move away. Rogue's head jerked up as he did so, her gaze focusing unerringly on the thief who was now poised on the lip of the low retaining wall that ran around the edge of the roof.

"Y'all better just stop right there," she told him in a tone as cold as her glare.

Marcus' gaze flickered to Remy, who repeated the instruction to leave. He blinked once and then his expression quirked with a wry humor that Remy hadn't known he possessed.

Marcus bowed lightly. "As much as I'd like to stay and watch, I really can't. Besides, this looks like a private conversation." Turning, he dove headfirst off the roof.

Rogue uttered a small gasp of surprise and almost went after him, but she caught herself just before she released her vise-like hold on Remy. She turned her glare on the Cajun.

"Ah'm guessin' he ain't gonna go 'splat', right?"

Remy could hear the faint whine as Marcus' line played out. "Right, chere."

Her lips thinned. "Who is he?" she demanded.

Remy forced himself to meet her gaze. If he hadn't already made the decision to start showing her some things, he probably would have stonewalled her completely, taking the risk that she wouldn't do anything that might get him kicked off the team. But now he realized he wanted to tell her the truth. He just had to consider how much.

_One step at a time_, he told himself. _Let's see how she does wit' de first answer_.

"He's a t'ief, chere. Jus' someone I know."

Rogue seemed somewhat mollified by the admission, but the anger in her eyes hadn't changed. "What did ya steal?"

Remy shrugged as best he could in her grip. "Why don' y' take a look f' y'self." His bag with a portion of the bearer bonds had been slung over his shoulder and now lay on the ground beside him.

Rogue eyed him distrustfully, but looked away long enough to note the position of the bag. Remy could see her thinking through her options. To open the bag and look inside would require at least one hand, which meant she would have to let go of him. But to do so from this position would leave her open to an attack at close range, something he'd been able to trick her into doing on several occasions in the Danger Room.

In one fluid motion, she released him and rose to her feet, then stepped back and crossed her arms. The action reminded him of Raven, oddly enough, and as he would have with the shapeshifting terrorist, he stood and carefully tossed her the bag. Rogue caught it neatly and flipped back the top flap to rifle through the bonds. After a moment, her fingers stilled.

"How long?" She indicated the bag and its contents. "How long have ya been doin' this, Remy? Why did ya lie ta me?" She made a helpless gesture.

"I didn' lie to y'," he answered, holding up a hand to forestall her as her eyes narrowed accusingly. "At de time I said it, it was de trut'."

She blinked rapidly. "What? Ya want me ta believe ya just all of a sudden today decided ta go back ta stealin'?"

The derision in her face and voice made Remy angry. "Oui, chere. I _do_ wan' y' t' believe dat," he answered, his tone mimicking hers. He spun on his heel and stalked to the edge of the roof a few feet away to look down over the city.

"Why should ah?" The question was as much plaintive as it was angry and made Remy pause. There was a note of yearning in her voice that he didn't remember hearing before, as if she were in some way begging him to give her a reason rather than daring him to prove he had one.

Remy took a deep breath of fresh air to ward of the queasy feeling in his stomach. "Because I jus' violated de one condition Professor Xavier put on me stayin' wit' de X-Men, chere. I wouldn' do dat wit'out good reason."

Rogue was silent and after a while Remy turned to face her. The moonlight lit her stripe with silver, leaving the rest of her face in shadow.

"What do ya mean?" she finally asked. "What condition?"

Wanting to be able to see her face, Remy closed the distance between them. "No stealin' t'ings f' deir monetary value," he quoted to her. That was the promise Xavier had extracted from him. The Professor didn't mind if Remy made a profit off of the things he did that benefited mutants, and in fact had understood that Remy _had_ to do so in order to maintain his reputation. But he had drawn a hard line on the concept of taking something away from someone else simply because it would make Remy, or anyone else for that matter, wealthier. Remy might be able to argue that what he was doing was for the protection of the Guild and the mutants in it, but that was a rather fine line. The Guild could probably manage without the added input-- he just wasn't willing to take that risk.

Remy watched the wheels turning behind Rogue's eyes and wondered what she was thinking. She didn't offer him any insight when she asked, "So why did ya do it?" Her expression was closed and the emotions that were usually so easily read on her face were carefully guarded.

Remy paused, uncertain how to proceed. They had just about reached the limit of what he was willing to tell her. Finally, he shook his head. "I can' tell y' dat."

Her eyes narrowed with renewed skepticism, accentuated by anger. "Ya mean ya won't," she corrected him flatly.

He was forced to concede the point. "All right. Won'." He was amazed by her reactions. Yes, she was angry, but this was not the emotional, undisciplined tantrum-throwing child-woman he usually found himself dealing with. He wasn't quite certain why, except that this was the first time he hadn't tried to evade her questions.

_I'm gon' shoot myself if I could've avoided all dis trouble jus' by tellin' her 'no' instead o' refusin' t' say anyt'ing. As driven as she is, I always figured she'd never give up once she knew which questions I couldn' afford t' answer._

Rogue cocked her head and stared at him. "So what you're tellin' me is that ya've got a good reason foh stealin' all this—" she waved the bag in her hand, "but ya won't tell me what it is."

He nodded cautiously. "Oui... Y' willin' t' trust me on dis one, chere?"

The look she gave him was brimming with sarcasm. "_Trust_ ya? Sugah, ah'm beginnin' ta get the feelin' ah don't even _know_ ya."

Remy was suddenly overcome with the urge to laugh. She had hit the root of the problem exactly, even if she didn't realize it. He managed to stifle his laughter, but was grinning broadly as he stuck out his hand. "Remy LeBeau, chere. Professional t'ief an' occasional hero. Nice t' meet y'."

Rogue stared at him, her mouth working soundlessly. He watched the progression of emotions on her face, and was relieved to see her expression settle into something that resembled acceptance.

He was downright shocked when she reached out and shook his hand, a light of amusement dawning in her eyes.

"Ah gotta tell ya, sugah... Ah don't date thieves."

Keeping hold of her hand, Remy drew her closer. "We could have a problem, den," he murmured. He knew immediately that he was playing with fire, and the desire that flared to life in her eyes confirmed it.

She refused to be distracted, however. "What's the money foh, Remy?" she asked softly as her form molded itself against him and her deep green gaze dove into his own.

Remy struggled to consider his options objectively. He had told her everything he thought was safe to reveal here and now, but the piercing intensity of her stare made him very aware of how much was hanging on his answer. For a moment, he wanted to simply sit down and explain everything to her, but the layers of misinformation were deep and the thought of peeling too much away too quickly left him cold and shaken. But still, she had taken the conversation well so far, so perhaps a little more would be all right.

"It's t' help mutants, chere," he admitted. Her eyebrows lifted in surprise as he continued, "De world's gettin' ugly an' not everybody dat's a mutant's got de power t' defend demselves. Or a big mansion an' a bunch o' alien gizmos t' give dem a safe place t' wait out de storm, either."

Wide-eyed, Rogue broke away from him and stepped back. "Ah... ah had no idea. Ah'm sorry." She turned away, her eyes downcast, but after a moment looked back up at him. "But if you're doin' mutant underground stuff, why steal the money? The Professor's always funded that kind a thing."

Remy looked out over the city. "Ain' Xavier's underground, an' Scott's controllin' de Professor's money now. I don' t'ink he'd approve, non?"

Rogue gave him a troubled frown. "Why not?"

Unhappily, Remy shook his head and didn't answer. To try to explain that would give away far more than he was willing to right now.

Rogue watched him for a moment longer, her gaze narrowing. But all she did was sigh softly and turn so that she could sit down on the low retaining wall. She stared at her feet while the evening breeze stirred her hair.

"All right, sugah. Ah won't ask any more."

"T'ank y', chere."

She looked up. Her face lit with a small smile as their eyes locked. "Remy LeBeau, what ever am ah going ta do with ya?"

Remy grinned in reply. "I have a list," he suggested.

She blushed and looked away. Not wanting to push too hard, Remy picked up his equipment bag and slung it over his shoulder once again. Without quite meeting his eyes, Rogue silently offered him his thief's satchel with its valuable contents. He settled that over his shoulders as well and then walked over to where his line lay. He picked it up and attached it to the harness he wore. Checking the connections and the tension on the line, he made his way over to the roof's edge and stepped up on the wall.

"I'll see y' back at de mansion, neh?"

She nodded. "Be careful, sugah."

"Never." Smiling, Remy stepped off the edge and plummeted into the night.

#-#-#-#

Bobby wandered through the mansion, coffee in hand, as he searched for the rest of the X-Men. It was nearly noon, but he had been out very late the previous evening, trying to track down a rumor of a new Draxar location in the New York area. The one that Remy had broken into more than six months earlier had been abandoned and the facility stripped. The skeletal structure that remained gave little indication of the place's intended function.

The sound of cheerful voices drew Bobby toward the back of the house. He walked up behind Scott who was leaning against the back door frame, his relaxed posture at odds with the sense of repressed excitement that radiated from him. Bobby gave him a quizzical look, but then dropped the train of thought as Diedre came over to give him a welcoming kiss.

A number of the X-Men were out on the patio sharing an impromptu picnic lunch in the crisp fall sunshine. The rain had finally let up and though the ground was still soggy, the air was brisk and the sun uncommonly warm for the season. Out on the basketball court, Bobby was surprised to see Gambit and Rogue engaged in a boisterous but friendly-looking game of one-on-one. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, and the game appeared to involve almost as much flirting as it did basketball.

"Now there's an unusual sight," Bobby commented with a nod toward the two.

Scott uttered a snort of sour amusement, but didn't comment. After a moment, Bobby looked over at him. Scott was always hard to read, but his senses were telling him that there was something not quite right with their usually stoic field leader.

"Are you o.k., Scott?" he asked after a moment.

Scott continued to watch Remy and Rogue for another moment then dragged his attention away and focused on Bobby. The young thief had the impression that he was having trouble keeping his mind in the here-and-now.

"I'm fine," he answered, then smiled unexpectedly. "Am I acting strange?"

Bobby tried to keep his expression under control. "Yeah, a little," he admitted.

Scott looked back out over the mansion grounds. He was still smiling, though with an oddly reflective quality. "I guess I'm still in shock. I'm sure it'll pass. _Then_ I'll probably be terrified."

Bobby squinted at him. "I think I must have woken up in the Twilight Zone. Gambit and Rogue are getting along and Scott is talking about his feelings. Did I miss something?"

Diedre giggled and squeezed his hand. "You did. Jean is pregnant."

Bobby blinked in surprise, then grinned and clapped Scott on the shoulder. "Wow. Congratulations!" He looked around. "Where is Jean?"

Scott shrugged lightly. "Not feeling well. She went to lie down."

Diedre nodded. "Ororo and I were about to go see how she's doing. We're just waiting for Rogue."

Bobby followed her gaze back to the basketball court, where Rogue was unsuccessfully trying to get around the man guarding her. After a bit more maneuvering, Rogue found her opportunity and dodged around Gambit to make her shot. Bobby could tell immediately that she'd caught him off guard and even his reflexes couldn't make up the difference. The ball sailed neatly into the net and Rogue raised both arms over her head, claiming victory.

The two walked off the court together and approached the patio. To Bobby's eye, there still appeared to be some tension between the couple, but it had lost its ugly edge. Rogue went to join Ororo with a grin while Remy endured the obligatory round of teasing for letting himself get beaten by the Mississippi Marauder. After a moment, Diedre gave Bobby a parting smile and then joined the other women as the three of them set off toward the boathouse.

Bobby wandered over to take a seat by Hank who had a premium spot by the food, and began building himself a sandwich. Scott drifted over as well, though he remained standing.

"You two seem to be getting along today," he told Remy with a nod toward the retreating figure of Rogue.

Remy gave him a sidelong glance. "Gee, t'anks."

Bobby grinned. "You're welcome."

Remy made a disgusted noise and Hank laughed.

"Seriously, did you guys work something out?" Bobby persisted.

Remy met his gaze, his expression strangely whimsical. "Oui. I asked her t' marry me an' she said yes. We eloped last night."

Bobby's jaw dropped. Beside him, Hank stared at Remy, his blue eyes huge. They continued to stare at him, speechless, as he levered himself to his feet and picked up his empty plate.

"Bobby?" asked Remy.

"What?"

"Gotcha."

Laughing, Remy retreated into the house as a storm of snowballs pounded the area around the door.

#-#-#-#

When he hit the hallway, Remy broke into a run. His footsteps echoed on the stone floor, stirring up little clouds of dust as he raced through the Guild complex toward the medical area. The small hospital had been at the top of his list for things to refurbish, so he was pleased when he pushed open the doors to be confronted with a very modern-looking facility. The reception desk was not staffed, obviously, but a young thief stood in front of it and pointed down one of the nearby hallways when Remy looked at him. Remy turned that way, following the motion that his kinesthetic sense detected. His powers led him to one of the intensive care rooms, where he found a group of people gathered just outside the door. Most of them were thieves and leaders within the close knit community. All of them wore expressions of anger and helplessness.

"How is he?" Remy demanded as soon as he spied Artur.

Artur shook his head. "The doctor can tell you better than I can, Guildmaster. He's inside." He nodded toward the door.

Remy brushed by him and opened the door. Inside was a single bed with a small, bandaged form lying on it. Even from the doorway, Remy could see the scrapes and bruises that covered the lavender skin where it was exposed. A man and a woman stood beside the boy's head, obviously the parents. They watched with ill-concealed terror as the doctor adjusted the I.V. in the small arm.

They both looked up as Remy entered, and Remy was torn apart by the desperate plea in the father's eyes.

"Guildmaster." He glanced back at the still form on the bed, his expression ashen. "Thank you for coming."

Remy nodded as he crossed the room, unable to speak through the tightness in his throat. He stared down at the little boy, perhaps seven or eight years old and an obvious mutant with lavender skin and a shock of wiry, purple hair. His name was Jeremiah, though his family and friends all called him Miah, and he loved volcanoes. Of all the things Artur had told Remy when he called, those were two details that stuck with him.

Miah had been walking home from school when he was jumped by a group of F.O.H boys from the neighborhood where the family lived. A part of Remy wanted to rant and rave at the parents for not moving into the Guild complex. He had already blasted Artur for it over the phone, but the unfortunate truth was that the family had chosen not to leave when given the opportunity, and Artur had as much as he could handle with those who _did _want to move into the underground complex. It was an unfortunate combination of circumstance and poor decisions that might very well cost one little boy his life.

"How is he?" Remy finally asked as the doctor finished his examination.

The man split his gaze between Remy and the boy's parents. "He's stable, Guildmaster. That's all I can say for now." The doctor extended his hand. "We haven't met. I'm Dr. Lancaster."

Remy accepted the handshake. Lancaster was a familiar name, a member of the clans who was recognized for his valuable contributions to the health and safety of the Guild. Remy wasn't the least surprised that Artur had sent for the best doctor in the Guild for Miah.

"Where do y' practice?" Remy asked curiously.

"In the emergency room at Our Mother Of Mercy."

Remy raised an eyebrow. O-MOM was located in the heart of the Bronx and one of the toughest hospitals in the city. It spoke well of Dr. Lancaster's dedication to his profession. Remy knew perfectly well that he was good enough to have taken a supervisory position at any of a number of nicer facilities.

Remy looked around the room. "Is dere anyt'ing else y' need?"

Dr. Lancaster shook his head. "Nothing that isn't already on its way. Thank you."

Remy looked back at the parents. "I'm gon' have y' t'ings moved down into the complex," he told them. "Dat way you'll be safe an' you'll be close t' de Med Center."

Miah's father nodded jerkily. "I don't understand how this could have happened..."

Remy bit his tongue. He'd been beaten plenty as a kid, when the gangs that roamed New Orleans caught up with him. Sometimes there was a reason, other times it was just because they were bigger than he was and they wanted to. The only answer he had for the bewildered parents was that children could be just as vicious as adults and they were fools if they thought the world outside the Guild was a safe one.

Remy closed his eyes briefly as he placed a hand on the man's shoulder. "I can' tell y' de answer t' dat," _Least, not wit'out makin' y' hurt more dan y' already are_, "But I promise I'll do everyt'ing I can t' make sure it don' happen again."

The man nodded wordlessly, and his wife looked up at Remy with a tiny flicker of life in her red-rimmed eyes.

Remy left them then to rejoin the thieves who waited outside.

"What are we going to do about the F.O.H. bullies who did this?" One demanded as soon as the door had closed behind Remy. His name was Thomas O'Shane. His Irish lineage was as evident from his temperament as his flame orange hair. He was a good thief despite being "high-strung", as Artur had once described him, and his loyalty to the welfare of the Guild was unquestioned.

"Not'ing," Remy told him succinctly and was met by a murmur of angry response from the gathered men.

"What do you mean, 'nothing'?" Thomas waved wildly toward Miah's door. "That boy's one of our own! We can't just sit by and let—"

"Enough, T'ief!" Remy's bark cut through the man's anger, silencing him. Had he been paying attention, Remy would have been horrified by how much he sounded like Cyclops, but he was focused completely on the men surrounding him.

"If y' go after dese boys now, y'd be lookin' f' revenge, but what y'd get is a race war dat could kill us all. We need t' make sure we c'n protect everyone in de Guild dat needs it before we go startin' any kind o' violence. Ot'erwise de backlash could come back on y' family, y' friends, an' a lot of ot'er people y' swore an oath t' support an' protect. Understood?" Remy was surprised by his own vehemence, and the other thieves stared at him in silence.

Slowly, Thomas nodded. "Yes, Guildmaster." The anger was undimmed in his eyes, but Remy was hopeful that he had been able to remind the other man of his primary obligation which was to his Guild, not to his personal desire for revenge.

Remy breathed a tired sigh. "Good." He had a feeling the violence level in the city was only going to get worse. He had spent too many years battling the assassins in New Orleans to ever want to get his Guild involved in a war with the humans. The killing would never end until one side or the other was completely destroyed.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Remy shifted his position slightly as he waited for his contact, who was making her way across the wide expanse of grass separating them. Central Park was crowded today as New Yorkers got out to enjoy the sun, and Remy debated the wisdom of continuing with the meeting. The heavy traffic in the park would make it harder to pick out a possible tail. Considering who he was meeting, that could be disastrous.

The woman reached him. "Hello, Remy." She was stunningly beautiful, with wide green eyes and russet hair that fell to her waist. A thick white streak ran through that hair, accentuating the paleness of her skin and the contrasting color in her full lips.

Remy throttled a burst of anger as he scooped up her gloved hand and kissed the back of it lightly. "Dis is low, even f' you, chere."

She gave him a predatory smile. "This form was least likely ta draw suspicion," she answered sweetly.

Remy couldn't legitimately argue that one, though he doubted it was the main reason Mystique had chosen to wear her daughter's form. It was another not-so-subtle reminder that she had a few nasty weapons in her arsenal if he ever showed signs of getting too seriously attached to Rogue.

"Why don't we go foh a walk, sugah?" Mystique suggested. Remy did not resist as she slipped her hand into his. To any onlookers they would look like little more than a pair of lovers wandering through the park on a sunny day, though if said watchers had followed Mystique there, he wasn't convinced the ruse would fool them.

"Tell me about Creed," Remy said once they had walked a ways.

Mystique glanced at him sidelong. "Not in a mood foh flirtin' today, are we?"

"Not anymore."

She pouted briefly and Remy kept his reaction to himself only by effort of will. Rogue had a naturally luscious pout, and Mystique knew full well how to use it. It actually made it a little easier for him to remember that this was a borrowed image of Rogue, but didn't lessen the impact any.

"Creed?" he reminded her brusquely when she showed no signs of saying anything further.

"What do ya want ta know, sugah?" Mystique returned cheerfully. She was enjoying her game, he could tell. But then, toying with men's hearts had always been one of her favorite pastimes. Mystique sometimes reminded him of the little kids who pulled the wings off of flies just to watch them stumble around. Remy considered himself lucky to have met Mystique the way he had. She hadn't had much opportunity to sink any claws into _his_ heart.

"What kind o' mutant program was he workin' on?" Remy forced his mind out of the past and back onto the immediate problem.

Mystique's smile faded, becoming more business-like. "I don't know."

Remy glanced at her askance. "What? Y' shot him f' kicks?"

She stiffened minutely and Remy chalked himself up a point. Then the momentary lapse was gone, hidden behind a wall of nonchalance. "He deserved it." Mystique scuffed the leaves with her feet as she walked.

Remy looked out over the park and the people who were there, intent on their own self-involved lives. "Talk t' me, Raven. Y' wouldn've called if y' didn' want t' tell me 'bout somet'ing."

Mystique's playful smile returned. She clucked her tongue disapprovingly. "Responsibility is doin' terrible things to ya, Remy. Where's ya sense of adventure?"

Remy chuckled. "Chere, you've always been too much adventure f' dis boy."

Mystique snorted in amusement, but finally he could see her settling into her business mode.

She adjusted her grip on his hand. "All right. Creed was the director of a new mutant control initiative bein' funded indirectly through Congress. The name of the initiative is Operation: Zero Tolerance."

Remy raised an eyebrow. "Dat sounds ominous."

She nodded. "It was scheduled ta go online five days ago, which is why ah acted as ah did." The mixture of Mystique's hard professionalism with Rogue's warm Southern drawl struck Remy suddenly and he had a glimpse of the woman Rogue might have become had she not joined the X-Men. He wasn't sure if he liked what he saw or not.

"Go 'online'?" he asked.

Mystique shrugged. "That's the terminology that was bein' bandied around. Ah don't know what they were referrin' to."

Remy chewed on his thoughts for a few moments. "A front company f' dis Zero Tolerance spent a couple billion dollars over de last t'ree years. Doin' what, I couldn' tell y'."

Mystique cocked her head to look up at him. "Sentinels? That would fit with some o' the things ah've heard."

"Maybe, chere. Maybe. But de Sentinels have never been real effective 'gainst de X-Men or any o' de other teams."

Mystique snorted. "The Spandex Brigade has never run inta them en masse, either."

Remy felt a small chill at the thought of an army of the metal titans. "Point. Still, de human population don' like Sentinels any more dan mutants." He gave her a lopsided smile. "Too visible. Too much property damage."

"So maybe they have somethin' else in mind."

Remy thought briefly of the Draxar building he'd been inside. It had reminded him somewhat of a prison. Or a detainment center.

"Y' t'ink dey might have plans t' start separatin' humans an' mutants?" he asked slowly, his thoughts still turning.

Mystique stopped abruptly and turned to face him. It was obvious from her expression that he had struck some kind of chord.

"Ah've heard one common thread throughout everything dealing with Zero Tolerance, an' that's a sense o' complete certainty that whatever they're plannin' ta do will be done without any significant mutant interference." She met Remy's gaze. "They're not afraid of us. Not this time."

Dread filled Remy. "Is dat why y' shot Creed? T' teach dem some fear?"

She nodded. "And ta throw off their schedule. Ah bought us as much time as ah could, but ah don't think it'll last much longer. Zero Tolerance is going ta hit, an' unless you or somebody else has got a miracle up their sleeve, there's nothin' we can do ta stop it." She shook her head in a gesture of frustration. "Ah haven't heard o' anythin' kept this quiet since the Manhattan Project."

Remy pursed his lips. "Sorry, chere. I'm fresh out o' miracles."

Mystique's gaze narrowed. "Then ah hope ya've protected ya people."

Remy shrugged, feeling apprehensive. "I've done everyt'ing I can. Most o' de ot'er Guild leaders t'ink I'm bein' paranoid, but at least dey'll be on dere guard."

"An' the X-Men?" Her gaze was intent.

Remy nodded slowly. "Wit' any luck, dey'll be able t' take care o' demselves. But if not... Oui, I made some plans."

She nodded sharply. "Good enough, I suppose." With a surprisingly gentle motion, she disentangled her fingers from his. "The next time ah see ya, we'll no doubt know what Zero Tolerance is all about." There was an edge of sarcasm on her words. "If we're not dead, that is."

Remy didn't answer as she turned and walked away. He didn't need to. Whatever Zero Tolerance was, it was probably going to be one of the worst nightmares mutants had ever faced. And if Mystique's prediction was anything close to accurate, they were almost out of time.

#-#-#-#

Bobby leaned against the corner of the building, heedless of the moisture that seeped through his shirt and chilled his shoulder. He had been waiting almost two hours, and had he not had very specific instructions from the Guildmaster, he might have given up in disgust and left. It was only an hour past midnight, however, and his real reason for impatience was the six a.m. practice that Scott had scheduled.

Bobby was standing on the border of Ravage territory, in the midst of an ill-defined neutral zone the gang maintained with its neighbors. He wasn't alone, by any means. Shadows flickered around him as the scouts that Pitt had sent shifted and watched. They were looking for tails or any other evidence that Bobby was not what he seemed.

The young thief sighed and crouched down to stretch his hamstrings, resigned to waiting another couple of hours if that was what it took. He was looking down at the concrete between his feet, but out of his peripheral vision caught sight of the ghostly forms that slid silently out of the shadows to surround him. He straightened nonchalantly, and had the satisfaction of seeing the figures trade glances, surprised their little trick hadn't startled him.

Bobby waited quietly. The Ravage was somewhat unusual for a New York gang, which was no doubt why Remy had chosen them. For one, they were older than the norm-- the boys that surrounded Bobby looked to be a mixture of late teens and early twenties. For two, they were multi-racial and had no bias against mutants. Many gangs were human-only along with their other racial, ethnic and/or sex-based orientations.

"You Drake?" the leader of the little group asked him.

Bobby nodded once without speaking. One of many things Remy had taught him was the power of silence. Silence was intimidating, if used properly. Silence implied power, and Bobby was slowly coming to grips with the fact that power was something he had a great deal of. His confidence was not lost on the gang members and he could see them mentally backing up a step.

Bobby kept his reaction to himself. Intimidating a bunch of kids was hardly difficult, but there was still a part of him that was amazed by the fact that he was doing it at all.

The leader turned away, jerking his head to indicate that Bobby was to follow. "This way. Pitt's expectin' you."

Bobby followed without comment, noting the wary positions the boys took up around him. They had no idea they were dealing with Guild, of course. At most, the Thieves Guild was a rumor to them or perhaps an urban myth. Real knowledge of the Guild was limited to a strict set of people who could be trusted not to betray the thieves' existence. However, they did know Gambit, or at least had heard of him, and that was enough to win Bobby an audience with the leader of the Ravage.

Briefly, Bobby wondered how Gambit was fairing. He'd taken the Guild jet to Washington D.C. to follow up on some new information about Draxar's government connections. Already Bobby was working on what he planned to tell Scott in the morning. It was unlikely that Remy would make the early practice, and if by some chance he did, he'd be coming straight from the airport. Either way, Bobby needed to be ready to jump in with a diversion for Scott.

Bobby's guide led him to the edge of a fenced-off lot. The building inside looked like it had once been a Wal-Mart, but was now abandoned. The parking lot crumbled in places and the white lines had all but faded away. The building itself looked fairly sound, though Bobby saw signs that there had been a fire at some point in the past. The area looked to be commercial, but Bobby spotted several apartment buildings whose upper windows gave them a view of the abandoned building. He chewed on his lip, considering the implications, even as the boy in front of him pulled up a section of the chain link fence, allowing them to duck through.

Pitt was waiting for them inside the building, surrounded by the core of his gang. Bobby took note of their weapons and was reasonably impressed. The Ravage trafficked primarily in designer drugs and heavy weaponry, which made them both smarter and wealthier than the average gang. Still, they were small-time criminals, all things considered, but they were a convenient source for the things Gambit wanted.

Pitt himself was something of a surprise. He was a mutant. His skin was far too red to be human, and freckled with black. His lips were black as well, with the tips of fangs protruding from them. Yellow eyes with oblong cat's pupils watched Bobby with interest. Bobby was happy to return the favor. _Vampire_ was the first thing that floated through his mind, but there was no way for Bobby to know if the other's mutation included anything besides the visible changes.

"Y' come t' deal or t' stare?" Pitt asked caustically, and Bobby pushed his curiosity away.

"Deal," he answered, then purposely broke away from Pitt's gaze and looked around the interior of the building. "Is this it?"

Pitt didn't bother to state the obvious. "Lot's of empty space an' the ceiling's more than twenty feet high. That's what y' wanted, right?"

Bobby pursed his lips. The Blackbird would fit quite nicely, though they'd have to drive it through the front wall to get it in.

"Underground access?" he asked.

Pitt shrugged. "Not inside. There's a couple of manholes out back that lead into the storm sewers."

Bobby frowned. That wasn't ideal, but would probably be all right. He'd insist on checking it out before he left, just to make sure. "And the rest?"

Pitt gestured to one of his people who brought a large duffel bag forward. The young man kept the bag's strap securely on his shoulder, but unzipped it and showed Bobby the contents.

"Fuses and timers are there, too," Pitt said.

Bobby nodded. He didn't have any reason to expect Pitt to make a bad deal. Slowly, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick envelope, which he handed to Pitt. The man holding the duffel bag watched his leader open the envelope, and when he saw the thick leaf of hundred-dollar bills, he slid the strap from his shoulder and offered the bag to Bobby.

Bobby took it and quickly double checked the contents. The blocks of gray plastique were wrapped in paper. He found the bundle of fuses tucked into an inside pocket, along with the timing electronics.

"Looks good," he told Pitt.

#-#-#-#

Remy paused curiously as the program he was watching was interrupted for a special report from the White House press room. He sat alone in the den, having abandoned the kitchen after two consecutive rounds of sniping with Rogue. It constantly amazed him how quickly their relationship could bounce from one end of the spectrum to the other. Today was apparently going to be a bad day. Partially his fault, no doubt, because he was punchy from lack of sleep and frustrated by his inability to dig up _anything_ on Zero Tolerance. Still, he wished she would show a little more understanding. Some days he was just too tired to be anything but passably civil. Of course, he reminded himself bitterly, the X-Man Gambit was both irresponsible and lazy, so he didn't really have an excuse for poor manners.

Remy's frustration slid toward anger as his thoughts chased each other around inside his head. Then, in an instant, every thought of Rogue was banished as the man standing before the White House podium uttered the magic phrase, "Operation: Zero Tolerance". Remy sat forward, instinctively upping the volume on the television a couple of notches.

He didn't recognize the man at the podium, but the coldly calculating stare was enough to set Remy's internal alarms to ringing. The speaker introduced himself only as Bastion then launched into a very political speech about the threat of mutant powers. Remy didn't hear anything he hadn't heard a dozen times before, and a number of the instances of mutant terrorism that Bastion cited were conflicts that the X-Men, including Gambit, had been involved in. To his surprise, Bastion had most of his facts straight, though he never gave the X-Men credit for the disasters they averted, only the collateral damage they caused.

Remy listened with growing disgust that went sour in his stomach at Bastion's final words.

The hawk-faced man surveyed his audience. "Today, the threat presented by mutants is brought to an end, my friends. Today, we mark the beginning of a new age because you, the people of America, and all the others like you around the world, have had enough. No longer will we tolerate those whose genetic mutations give them the power to destroy what we have built. From today forward, I am declaring a zero tolerance policy toward mutant aggression." His ringing statement was met with scattered applause from the assembled journalists.

Bastion paused and shifted back a step. "And what, you ask, can one man or even one organization do to enforce such a policy?" Bastion smiled, a thin, cruel expression. "Well, let me show you." He picked up a remote control from the podium as the room grew expectantly silent around him. The projection screen behind him came to life, showing an illustrated picture of the Earth with a ring of out-of-scale satellites surrounding it. A large blue "20" overlaid the picture of the Earth. As Bastion began speaking again, the blue numbers began to count downward.

"Above our heads, a network of satellites are now in position to cover the entire face of the globe. These satellites were originally part of the Magneto Protocols—a shortsighted plan that was completely ineffective in protecting the citizens of this planet from Magneto's terrorist attack two years ago." An unhappy murmur of answered him as the count hit ten.

"These satellites have since been re-commissioned, and equipped with state-of-the-art modulation arrays that will blanket the entire planet with a mutant power suppression field strong enough to curb even Magneto himself."

Remy came to his feet in horror as the details clicked together in his mind. The large blue number displayed on the screen became a "4" and he watched with sickened dread as it counted down to zero.

The large blue zero hung with terrible finality in front of his eyes for just one moment, and then it was gone. A wave of nausea swept through him. It took a moment for Remy to adjust to the change, and he knew without any doubt that Operation: Zero Tolerance had struck. He could hear the gloating in Bastion's voice as understanding swept through the assembled journalists and reporters.

"As of this moment," Bastion told them solemnly, "there are no more mutants."

Remy's mind was still whirling with the terrifying implications when Rogue screamed, her voice shrill with agony. Without thinking, he turned and ran for the kitchen, vaulting instinctively over the Victorian loveseat, and breathing a silent prayer of thanks that he hadn't misjudged its location. The doorway to the kitchen glowed brightly with the light that shone through it, and Remy burst through without slowing. Rogue stood in the middle of the kitchen, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She held one hand away from her body with the other hand wrapped tightly about the wrist. An angry red stripe ran across her palm, matching the glow of the cast iron skillet that lay on the floor next to the stove. She didn't seem to notice him, but continued to stare at her injured hand.

_Shock_, Remy thought to himself. He forgot Bastion momentarily as his mind flipped through what little he knew about treating burns. His inertia carried him to the center of the room and Rogue. He grabbed her wrist and used his body to push her toward the sink. The longer that burn stayed hot, the more damage it would do. That much he did know. He thrust her hand into the dark square that was the sink and fumbled for the handle, finally pushing it all the way over to cold.

Rogue jerked back and cried out in pain as the cold water poured across her hand, but Remy held her pinned against the counter and forced her injured palm beneath the dark tumble. After a moment she stopped struggling, but remained rigid in his arms. The bright red slash on her palm began to fade to a slightly less alarming color.

"Rogue, what happened?!" Bishop burst into the kitchen. Remy heard the whine of his weapon charging.

"Get Beast!" Remy shouted at him. "She's burned!"

"What?" For once, Bishop was taken by surprise.

"Just get him!" Remy tried to hold his panic in check. He had no way of knowing how badly she was hurt. It was just her hand, but she was frighteningly quiet.

To Remy's surprise, Bishop turned and left. He was replaced almost immediately by Ororo, and then other X-Men, arriving in twos and threes. Ororo helped Remy to steady Rogue and keep her hand in the cold water. Remy desperately wished he could read Storm's expression in the hopes that it would ease some of his inner disquiet.

Hank pushed through the crowd in the kitchen without his usual polite pleasantries. "Let me see," he demanded. Ororo moved out of the way. He cupped Rogue's hand in his much larger ones as he carefully turned it, examining the burn.

"Let's get her down to the infirmary," he told Remy. His voice was steady, but concerned, and Remy found himself more frightened than ever. Why didn't Rogue say anything? He could feel her shaky breath against his ribs.

Hank stepped away, and Remy realized with a sudden start that he was giving Remy room to pick Rogue up. And Remy also knew that there was no way he could carry her all the way to the infirmary.

"Take her," he said hoarsely. He couldn't read Hank's reaction, but imagined the curious lift of his bushy eyebrows. Still, Hank did as he asked, and carried Rogue swiftly out of the kitchen. Several of the X-Men followed him, including Storm and Jean.

The rest of them were left staring at each other in silence.

Scott cleared his throat. "Can any of you still use your powers?" he asked quietly.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10 

In the War Room, the pandemonium slowly dwindled and then ceased altogether as the telephone handset Jean was holding slipped numbly from her fingers to clatter on the table. The other hand was clapped over her mouth and her green eyes were wide with horror. In the silence, the drone of the news report, endlessly detailing the impact of the Zero Tolerance suppression field, seemed inordinately loud.

"Jean, what's wrong?" A cold, hard knot of dread formed in the pit of Scott's stomach.

Jean blinked and her eyes filled with tears. She bit her lip as her hand fluttered away from her mouth. "That was Moira. Kitty's dead."

"What?" Bobby was on his feet, along with several others. "How?"

Jean glanced at him as her tears spilled over. "She was in the middle of phasing when it happened. She--" Jean shook her head helplessly, unable to continue.

Bobby sank slowly back into his chair, stunned, and Diedre placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. Scott tasted bile as his imagination conjured an image of what must have happened to Shadowcat, and he saw his feelings of horror reflected in the faces around him.

The X-Men sat in silence for several long minutes, numbed by the news.

"What about the rest of Excalibur?" Scott forced himself to ask. As much as he wanted to let the loss consume him, there were other people that needed to be considered.

"They're o.k." Jean wiped the tears from her face, only to have them instantly replaced by fresh.

"Many mutants are dying this day," Ororo said softly, her own eyes glimmering with unshed tears. The news coverage had already reported on several mutants who had been either airborne or caught in some kind of altered state when the suppression field was activated. Had the X-Men been involved in a Danger Room sequence, Scott reflected, several of them might now also be dead for the same reasons. The thought made him a little weak in the knees, as if they had dodged a bullet without realizing it. Rogue's injury was a fairly minor consequence, all things considered.

Scott glanced involuntarily at Remy. He was surprised that Gambit had stayed with them rather than going to the infirmary with Rogue, but he stood quietly off to one side, his face expressionless.

"So what's de plan?" Gambit asked when he noticed Scott's gaze. He was uncommonly serious.

Scott blinked in surprise at the blunt question as heads around the room turned in his direction. But _that's the question of the hour, isn't it?_ he thought. _And they're all looking to me for an answer._

He straightened unconsciously. "For now, we sit tight. We don't know enough about Bastion and the threat posed by Zero Tolerance to form any kind of plan."

"The threat is _very _clear, Cyclops." Bishop's voice was nearly a growl.

Scott met the other man's gaze and was startled by the depth of fear he saw there. "Not yet, Bishop," he countered softly. "So far, all they've done is shut down our powers. We have no idea what else they might have in mind."

"What do you mean, Scott?" Ororo's brow was drawn in a troubled frown.

Scott sighed, feeling old. "What I mean is that we have no idea if this is just the first step of a much larger plan to control mutants." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Remy nodding slightly in unconscious agreement and had to stifle a snort. Of all the times for the Cajun to agree with him... but hopefully that meant he would be more cooperative than usual.

Scott looked around the room. "Our first priority now is to get in contact with each of the other teams. Find out if anyone else has been injured or-- God forbid-- killed by this thing. Then we need to find out everything we can about this Bastion and his Operation: Zero Tolerance, and be on the look out for anything that suggests that they plan to take more radical action towards the mutant population." His gaze locked with Storm's. "Logan is already out there, gathering information. We should hear from him soon."

Ororo nodded briefly. Scott touched the intercom controls. "Hank, how is Rogue doing?"

There was a short pause before Hank responded from the medlab. "She's sleeping, and I've started the tissue cloning process. I should be able to do the graft in the morning." He paused again and Scott could imagine him adjusting his glasses. "Unless her body rejects the tissue, there's no reason to think she won't heal completely."

Scott found himself nodding, relieved, as he cut the connection. "Well, that's good news, anyway." He spent a moment sorting his thoughts and then began assigning each of the X-Men specific tasks. There wasn't, honestly, a whole lot they could do _right now_, but they all needed something to distract them from the sheer immensity of the change that had befallen them.

Slowly the X-Men dispersed, leaving the War Room in groups of two or three. Scott had consciously arranged the duty assignments to group those he knew to be close friends together. Today, they all needed the support.

Eventually the room emptied, leaving Scott and Jean alone at the conference table. Jean stood wordlessly, then, with a small sob, came around the table and into his arms. Scott held her tightly and let her cry, his own eyes burning. He didn't want to admit it even to himself, and he certainly couldn't let the X-Men see it in him, but he was scared. In one single stroke, Bastion had taken away nearly every weapon they had to defend themselves. He was very afraid of what the leader of Zero Tolerance might do next.

#-#-#-#

Bobby walked slowly toward the storage area, his thoughts reeling. Even Diedre's hand in his was little reassurance. He'd promised to protect her, but with their powers gone, if the government started hunting the X-Men...

Remy's hand closed on his shoulder, jerking him out of his thoughts. The Cajun had fallen in behind the couple as the three headed toward their assigned task to inventory the weapons lockers. It was a little odd, Bobby realized, for Remy to be following him and his puzzlement briefly overrode the panicky thoughts chasing each other around in his head.

Remy jerked his head toward the doors that lined the corridor. "Let's find someplace private t' talk."

Bobby nodded and released Diedre's hand. "Right."

Remy shook his head lightly. "Bot' of you."

Surprised again, Bobby frowned and Diedre gave him a minuscule shrug. Together, they moved into the nearest room. Bobby watched with a growing sense of trepidation as Remy locked the door. He definitely didn't want anyone overhearing this conversation, which meant it had to be Guild business. But that didn't explain why he wanted Diedre to be there.

"Cerebro," Remy addressed the invisible computing system as he turned. "Turn off monitors and recording f' storage area C-8."

"Authorization?" the computer answered.

"Xavier-beta. Key t' my voiceprint."

Bobby arched his eyebrows at that. Xavier-alpha was the primary access control code for all of Cerebro's functions. Only the Professor and Scott could use the Xavier-alpha commands. Bobby had never heard of a Xavier-beta.

"Authorization accepted," Cerebro replied.

Several things clicked together in Bobby's mind. He smiled. "Is that how you manage that?" Remy had an uncanny ability to avoid Cerebro's notice.

Remy flashed him a grin. "'Lil gift from de Professor. Nice, huh?"

"Very. And all this time I thought you were hacking the system." He cocked his head. "What level of access does it give you?"

Remy's grin faded. Bobby watched as the man who was Guildmaster emerged from behind the X-Man facade. His red gaze was intent. "Same as Xavier-alpha would, wit' authority t' override alpha commands under certain circumstances."

Bobby considered that for several moments. The Professor had given Remy permission to override even his own commands to Cerebro, at least sometimes. "Why?"

Remy shrugged, his expression solemn. "Between knowin' what I really do, an' de information Bishop brought back from his time, de Professor figured dat if anyt'ing _serious _ever happened t' de X-Men, I'd be de most likely t' survive."

Bobby nodded in sudden, chilled understanding. "So if we were all dead and somebody tried to turn Cerebro against mutants, you'd be able to stop them."

"Oui."

Bobby took a deep breath to steady himself. He had been unaware of how thoroughly the Professor had trusted Remy, but now he was grateful. With Kitty's death painfully fresh in his mind and the frightening reports coming to them through the television news and Cerebro's monitoring, he could very easily imagine the scenario the Professor had been thinking of. Diedre, too, seemed to understand. She pressed herself a little closer against Bobby's side.

"Dat wasn' what I wanted t' talk about, t'ough."

Bobby shoved his fatalistic thoughts away so that he could concentrate on the real matter. "Oh." He paused. "So, what's up?"

Remy's expression lightened fractionally. "Were y' payin' attention t' Hank's little lecture 'bout physical an' mental mutations?"

"Uh, yeah." Hank had left the medlab briefly to give them all a scholarly lecture on the different types of mutations in an attempt to explain why some of their mutations were unchanged by the OZT damping field. "The damping field doesn't change purely physical mutations, which is why Hank is still blue and furry -- and strong. Most of the rest of us have powers that come from our brains somehow, and those are the ones that are damped."

Remy was nodding. "Across de board, we've all lost our powers wit' de exception o' jus' a few." He ticked them off on the fingers of one hand. "Hank, like y' said. Warren's still got his wings, but not whatever it was dat let him cart around eighty pounds o' feathers like dey were not'ing. An' I'd bet dat Logan's still got his claws, t'ough not his healing factor." Remy paused significantly. "An' den dere's me."

"You?" Bobby looked at him in surprise.

Remy gave him a humorless grin and tapped his temple. With a start, Bobby realized that he was talking about his eyes, which remained the black and red combination Bobby was familiar with. He felt a small tingling of dread.

"What about you?"

Remy crossed his arms, the red gaze faltering for just a moment. "M' 'natural' range o' vision is in de infrared, Bobby. _Only_ de infrared. Whatever part o' my mutant powers it is dat lets me see de visual spectrum went away wit' de damping field."

It took Bobby a moment to absorb what he was saying and his eyes widened. "You're blind?"

"Non." Remy shook his head emphatically. "But now everyt'ing is in terms o' temperature. I c'n see heat, but not colors."

"Oh." He glanced around, puzzled. "So why the secrecy? The X-Men aren't going to care. We've all lost our powers."

Remy cocked his head, his expression vague. "What's in dis room, Bobby?" he asked with deceptive mildness.

Bobby's thoughts snapped into focus as he realized the intensity that lurked behind the question. He looked around with a critical thief's eye, but saw nothing that would warrant such a reaction. "Not much," he answered after a moment. "Stacks of boxes and some old furniture and stuff from the boathouse."

Remy nodded, a small crease between his brows hinting at hidden emotions. "I can' see any o' dat. It's all de same temperature as de floor, de walls an' de ceiling. All I c'n see in dis room is you an' Diedre, because y' warmer dan de rest."

The meaning of the words sank in slowly as Bobby struggled to envision seeing things the way Remy was describing. He began to understand the other man's concern. It was a sizable handicap.

"It's going to be more important to keep the Guild from finding out than the X-Men," he finally commented. Although Remy had gained the approval of many in the Guild, he still had plenty of enemies that would see the OZT damper as a prime opportunity to attack the Guildmaster's position. The last thing Remy needed was to give them an exploitable weakness as an added weapon to use against him.

Remy's expression was approving as he nodded. "Oui. But I can' afford t' have de X-Men hoverin' over me because o' some misguided good intentions, either. Dat's where you two come in."

Bobby traded looks with his wife, who nodded. "Right," he agreed. That just meant that running interference for the Guildmaster was going to get a little harder. "Is there anything you need us to do right now?"

Remy shook his head. "Non. Jus' warn me if somebody rearranges de furniture. I shouldn' have any problems inside de mansion."

_On the other hand_, outside _the mansion could be a very big problem_, Bobby thought grimly, but decided not to voice his concern. He was certain Remy already knew what he was facing.

#-#-#-#

Remy paused on the threshold of the infirmary, mentally reviewing the layout of the room. Were it not for his training and skill as a thief, he wouldn't have stood a chance of navigating the mansion without help, but luckily this was nothing he hadn't done before. The arrangement of the mansion, its dimensions and everything else were laid out in his head in excruciating detail. What little he could still see served to fill in the less static items in the house-- mainly the people. He could see Rogue lying on one of the beds, her form still but glowing with reassuring warmth. Hank sat several feet away at a computer terminal. The rhythmic clacking of the keyboard was all the indication Remy needed to conclude that he was working. The heat coming off of both Hank and the computer served to illuminate a portion of the desktop, which was piled high with notebooks, disk cases and other scientific paraphernalia.

The tapping of the keyboard ceased as Remy walked over to Rogue's bedside. He stood looking down at her. Her hair was a dim tumble compared to her face and he resisted the temptation to stroke it. Then realization struck him and he snorted ruefully. _No powers_. Slowly, he reached out, indulging in the softness of her hair and the sensation of her smooth skin beneath his fingertips.

"She's going to be fine," Hank said softly. He had turned his chair around and was watching Remy.

"Oui." Remy forced his attention away from Rogue and focused on the doctor. "Gave me a pretty bad scare, t'ough," he admitted. Aside from Bobby, Hank was the only person he was willing to talk to about such personal things with. During the long, hard course of his recovery, Hank had seen him with all of his normal defenses stripped away. And though Remy would never tell Hank about the Guild or any of the other secrets he lived, he no longer made any attempts to mask his real feelings around the man.

Hank stood and came over to the bed. "I can imagine," he answered the comment Remy had nearly forgotten. "Her body is used to being invulnerable, a byproduct of which is the blunting of her pain receptors. A burn like this would be enough to send a normal person into shock, at least briefly, and for her it was significantly worse." He tilted his head to look down at Rogue. "However, the physical damage is localized and given the advanced medical equipment we have access to, I estimate she'll be completely healed in a couple of weeks."

Remy felt the last of his tension draining away. "T'anks, Hank."

The soft glow of Hank's face twitched, and Remy guessed he was smiling. "You're welcome. Would you like to sit with her a while?"

Sorely tempted, Remy paused. But then he shook his head. "Non. Got some ot'er t'ing t' take care of." He glanced over at Hank. "Will she be awake tomorrow?"

Hank nodded. "I expect so. I can do the surgery without anesthetizing her, so she should be ready to receive visitors sometime after lunch."

Remy sighed and nodded. "Maybe I'll drop by den."

They were silent for several minutes, until Hank cleared his throat and turned away. "I'll just leave you two alone for a while." He walked away, and Remy looked back down at Rogue.

Almost involuntarily, he reached up to stroke her cheek one more time. He had dreamed of having the freedom to do just this, without having to worry about her powers. It was the only bright spot in an otherwise black day and he reveled in feel of it.

_Wish I could stay, chere_, he told her silently, _but dere are ot'er people out dere I'm supposed t' be takin' care of. _

Rogue didn't respond, nor did her deep, even breathing change. Remy smiled to himself. "Sleep well, mon amore." He leaned down to kiss her, but paused with his face so close to hers that he could feel the warmth of her breath on his skin. Then slowly, ruefully, he straightened and turned away.

_Can' stand de t'ought o' stealin' kisses from dat one, can y', O Master T'ief?_ he mocked himself gently as he left the medlab.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11 

Remy leaned back in his chair at the head of the Guild council table, searching for a more comfortable position. He was bone tired, with a stabbing headache from the strain of his mind continuing to reach out with senses he no longer possessed. He didn't feel like he had the energy to corral the argument that raged at that table, so for the moment he just sat back and let the gathered men vent.

Eventually, he leaned forward and rapped his knuckles sharply on the smooth tabletop, drawing their attention. The room quieted by degrees until there was silence. Remy looked around the room, trying to evaluate these eight men who were directly responsible to him for the management of the Guild. They were also the eight men who had elected Remy to the position of Guildmaster, and by now Remy knew them all fairly well.

Artur Valencia was his right hand, responsible for the governing of the Guild itself. Beside Artur sat Chess LaSalle, who was Andrea Black's father and former Guildmaster of New York. It was rare for a Guildmaster to step down from the position, but Chess had done so when he was diagnosed with bone cancer. Remy wondered what he thought of the past years. He had fought a long but victorious battle with the disease at the same time that Michael was destroying everything he had spent his life to build. Although he was confined to a wheel chair, the mind that had earned him the nickname "Chess" remained as sharp as ever and Remy had come to value his insight.

Beyond Chess sat Terrence Cooper and Will Sandberg. Neither were thieves. They represented the Clans in the Guild council. Next was Tom O'Shane, Remy's resident hot head and instigator of trouble. Not that he wasn't a good man-- he was. Remy had no doubts about his loyalty or his dedication to the Guild. Unfortunately, he tended to cause more problems than he solved because of his short fuse.

A thought struck Remy and he was forced to swallow a snort. Was that how Scott categorized Remy himself? Or did Logan hold the title of Chief Troublemaker when the X-Men gathered around the table in the War Room? Remy wished momentarily that he could sit down and compare notes with Scott. Just as quickly he dismissed the thought as ridiculous, and turned his attention back to his Guild council.

The other three men seated at the table were far less approving of Remy as Guildmaster. Ted Bales was probably the most neutral of the three. He didn't like Remy, but was at least giving the young Guildmaster a chance to prove himself. Unfortunately, Ted was of the ultra-conservative viewpoint. Remy had the feeling he would eventually prove himself to be far too much of a risk-taker to ever gain the man's approval.

The other two were definite cronies, and Remy considered them a threat. If he could find half an excuse, Remy thought, he would probably take Adrian into the Blood Match ring and remind him whom he was messing with. Adrian Tyre was Michael's cousin. He reminded Remy of Michael just a little too much for comfort.

Adrian's other half was Carson McCall. Both were of the opinion that the Thieves settled for far less than they were entitled to because of the no-powers rule. To Remy that was just another version of Magneto's spiel, that mutants were better somehow and entitled to more than the rest of humanity because of their powers. Magneto had enough power that Remy could understand how he came to that conclusion, but to hear it from men who hardly had an alpha power between them was almost amusing. Unfortunately, neither man had been implicated in any of Michael's actions and they were both careful now to express their opinions in subtle ways, which meant that there was little Remy could do except watch his back around them.

"Did you know about Zero Tolerance, Guildmaster?" The soft question interrupted the silence.

Remy's gaze fastened on Will Cooper. He could read the man's emotions easily through the variations in his heat signature, but he had no idea what expression might be on his face.

Remy shook his head. "Non. I heard de name Zero Tolerance 'bout t'ree days ago an' didn't have any idea what dey were plannin' until it hit."

"But you started sending the mutants of the Clan underground several weeks ago," Will persisted, and Remy realized where the questions were going.

"I knew dere was a new mutant control initiative in de works," he admitted. He could tell from the fluctuations in the signatures around the room that these men were concerned by how much Remy seemed to know about the government's anti-mutant programs. It was hard to come by that kind of information unless you had contacts on the inside, which often meant supplying information in return. The Guild would not look kindly on its Guildmaster working as a government informant.

"Most o' de information I dug up on m' own, t'rough a lead on one o' OZT's front companies. Didn' have any details, but de picture was bleak enough dat it seemed like a good idea t' be prepared."

"Very expensive preparation." Remy could feel the intensity of Adrian's stare, despite the fact that he couldn't see it. "It might have been... prudent of the Guildmaster to share some of this information with the Guild council."

Remy met the invisible stare with as much nonchalance as he could summon. His dislike for Adrian was intensified by the fact that he was kin to Michael, but Remy had been playing politics for too long to let that distract him.

"Dere wasn' much hard information t' share. I made de choice based on intuition an' experience, an' because it was de safest course t' take."

Adrian cocked his head and Remy could imagine his expression of distant disapproval. "Intuition is an uncertain thing to put so much trust in."

Remy allowed himself a smile. Adrian was fighting a losing battle today. Remy had made the right choices and they both knew it.

"Depends on how good y' intuition is, I suppose," he told the other man. "I trust mine because it has saved m' life more times dan I c'n count." He leaned forward slightly. "An' since you one o' de ones dat made me Guildmaster, y' obliged t' trust it as well."

Adrian didn't respond, and the two men stared at each other in tense silence until Chess cleared his throat, breaking the deadlock.

"What about these new Sentinels, Guildmaster?"

Remy turned toward the source of the voice, wishing he could see the older man's face. He would have been able to learn a great deal from the subtle shift and play of Chess's expressions. He had the feeling that the retired Master considered himself something of a tutor in the art of Guildmastership. Remy was inclined to agree.

Remy resisted the temptation to rub his eyes. He'd been up almost forty-eight hours straight now, and was beginning to feel it. "I don' know 'bout de Sentinels. I ran into a few o' dem about a year ago, but didn' know dat was what I was seein'." He shook his head at the memory. "Dey're as nasty as OZT wants us t' believe, t'ough."

The news that morning had been full of reports about the so-called Prime Sentinels that were being assigned to patrol the streets of cities like New York, London, Hong Kong and Los Angeles. Made to look just like ordinary people, they were human-sized, but equipped with the most advanced mutant detection and tracking equipment available. The news reports had played down the high intensity weaponry that was visible on the new Sentinels, which left Remy wondering how closely OZT was controlling the news media. He hadn't seen Trish Tilby reporting yet, which might have given him a better indication. Despite his personal dislike of the woman, she wasn't the type to let anyone write her scripts for her. If she reported it, it would be the truth, no matter how damaging that truth might be. Hank still winced whenever her name came up.

Remy pushed the errant thoughts aside and forced himself to focus. "Who'd we send after technical info on de mutant trackin' an' detection package dese t'ings are usin'?"

Artur gave him the names of three thieves. Remy nodded as the names jogged his memory. Information theft was a vastly different arena than the more traditional type of pinch, and thieves usually specialized in one or the other. The three men that the Guild had sent were probably the best they had, with the exception of Remy himself and possibly Bobby.

"Who are dey reportin' to?"

"To me, Guildmaster." That was Carson McCall, his voice studiously neutral. "I'll let you know when I hear something."

Remy nodded, but Artur jumped in before he could say anything else.

"Guildmaster, there's something else here we should be considering." The rustle of papers punctuated Artur's words.

"What's dat?"

"There are fourteen New York thieves currently working in countries that have very strong and even violent anti-mutant policies. With the Zero Tolerance field in place, they are at even greater risk."

"How many contracts is dat?"

Another rustle of papers. "Twelve, for a combined Guild take of eighteen million dollars."

"We can't afford to cancel that many contracts!" Tom O'Shane exclaimed. "The penalty fees would kill us!"

"Especially since our resources are so low already," Adrian added smoothly.

Remy ignored Adrian and nodded to Tom. "Oui. We can' afford dat." He looked over at Artur. "Has anybody asked t' be taken off one o' dose contracts?"

Artur shook his head. "No, not yet. I just thought it needed to be mentioned."

"An' it did." Remy looked around the table. "Do we have a plan f' getting' each o' dose t'ieves out if dere is a problem?"

"Yes, Guildmaster." Artur leaned back in his chair. "We're already making changes to account for the Zero Tolerance field, but now there are these Prime Sentinels and who knows what OZT will do tomorrow." He paused significantly. "The risk is increasing."

Remy let the words sink in. "I understand, Artur," he finally responded. "But we need de contracts. However, if y' see de day comin' dat we _can'_ get one of our people out, den y' let me know an' we'll cancel de contract. Until den, we're gon' have t' trust dat our t'ieves c'n get dere deir jobs done."

Artur nodded and Remy heaved a silent sigh. "Is dere anyt'ing else we need t' talk about right now?"

"There is one thing," Chess said, his wheelchair creaking as he shifted his weight.

"What's dat?"

"Your personal safety, Guildmaster."

Remy blinked in surprise, but since "Huh?" was hardly a dignified response for someone of his position, he kept his mouth shut and settled for raising one eyebrow instead.

"M' safety?" he asked cautiously. His first instinct was to think that Chess had somehow found out about his blindness.

Chess nodded. "Are you going to insist on living in Westchester with everything that's happening now? Every day it becomes less safe for mutants."

Remy had to stop and consider his response. The Guild didn't know about the X-Men. Michael had, but he'd figured it out on his own and hadn't shared the knowledge with anyone. All these men knew was that Remy lived at the Xavier Institute in Westchester because he had unknown contacts through the school that provided him with valuable information about mutant issues.

Slowly Remy shook his head. "F' now, I need t' stay in Westchester. I c'n keep track o' what OZT is doin' from dere better dan anywhere else."

Chess wasn't satisfied. "It's an exposed location, Guildmaster. What if Zero Tolerance targets the Xavier Institute? It is known to be a school for mutants."

Remy stifled his reaction. Chess had hit one of Remy's private fears squarely on the head. "It's a risk I'm willin' t' take. I can' explain why, but de mutants at dat school are important. Dey need t' be protected." Remy paused. "Consider dem m' personal investment in de future."

Remy watched Chess' heart rate, which was fast enough to indicate that he was thoroughly unhappy with Remy's choice. "The Guild and the Clans would feel more secure if you were here more often."

Remy was forced to acknowledge that. "I know. I'll do what I c'n but I won' make any promises."

Silence reigned for several long moments. Then, "Are these people really so important?" Chess asked him. "Are they worth putting the Guild at risk? We can ill afford to lose another Guildmaster now."

Remy straightened in his seat. What he meant was that if Remy were captured or killed by OZT, the political chaos at a time when the Guild was extremely vulnerable would probably result in their destruction. It was a scary thought.

"Dey worth it, Chess," Remy finally answered. "Dese people may be de best chance we have t' take Zero Tolerance down."

After a moment, Chess spread his hands in a gesture of acceptance. "All right. As you said, I'm obliged to trust your intuition."

#-#-#-#

The cab dropped Remy off at the mansion just a little past four a.m. He made his way to his bed and collapsed across it, not bothering to shed either his jacket or his boots. He managed to get in about four hours of solid unconsciousness before the door to his room swung open, slamming into the stop with unnecessary force.

Remy's eyes flew open. He surged halfway to his feet before realizing where he was and who was standing in his doorway.

"Ow, m' head." With a groan, he collapsed back onto the bed and covered his eyes against the bright glow from the window.

"I don't believe it. You're hung over." Scott's voice was filled with reproach.

"I am not," Remy retorted automatically. And as his mind cleared enough to remember the past twelve hours, he realized that it was true. He _felt_ hung over, but there hadn't been any alcohol involved. Just way too many hours without sleep, and too much strain trying to cope with the loss of his powers.

"What d' y' wan', Scott?"

"_Want?_" Scott's jaw snapped shut. "I _want_ you to stop behaving like an adolescent. I _want_ to see you take something seriously for once. All of our mutant powers have been stripped, and you're out partying like there's nothing wrong!"

It took all of Remy's willpower to keep his anger off his face as he sat up. He focused on the emptiness beyond Scott's right shoulder and shrugged with as much diffidence as he could. "Ever'body deals wit' it in dere own way, non?"

Scott simply stared at him, the wash of infrared colors that made up his figure shifting wildly as he struggled to maintain his composure. "I want you in the Danger Room in ten, Gambit." The words were clipped and cold. "We have a team practice scheduled for eight a.m., which you would have known if you'd been here." Scott spun on his heel and strode from the room.

When he was gone, Remy let out his breath in a ragged sigh and tried to push his anger away with it. He couldn't really blame Scott for his conclusion, no matter how much it rankled. The image was a useful cover that Remy had no intention of letting go of.

Wincing as he climbed to his feet, Remy went and shut the door of his room, then went into the bathroom to splash some water on his face. The reflection in the mirror over the sink was an undefined morass of colors that Remy had no names for, but he stared into it as if he might find some kind of insight there.

_LeBeau, how in de world did y' ever let y'self get into dis mess?_

Finding no answers, he changed into his uniform and made his way down to the Danger Room.

#-#-#-#

Scott bit back an exasperated sigh as Gambit walked into the Danger Room, two minutes past the deadline he'd been given. He was in uniform, and though he was pale and unshaven, his gaze was surprisingly keen as it flicked from person to person.

_At least he's walking in a straight line_, Scott thought in contempt, then stopped himself. Remy was a grown man and had the right to choose how he would behave. The fact that Scott disapproved of those choices didn't make them any less his right.

Scott sighed softly. He already regretted his words of a few minutes ago. Remy was correct in that much, at least. All of them had to deal with the loss of their powers in their own ways. Jean was showing signs of withdrawal because of the sudden silence in her head. Betsy's darting glance betrayed a new insecurity for the same reason. Warren remained in his room, brooding because the sheer weight of his feathered wings left him barely able to walk, let alone fly. Scott himself felt more vulnerable than he could rationally explain for the simple fact that he was wearing neither goggles nor glasses, and because the world was full of colors he had forgotten existed.

_Maybe I should be reassured that Remy has reacted by doing exactly what he always does._

Across the room, their eyes met. Remy's gaze was flat, disinterested-- seemingly unaffected by anything Scott had said. Scott felt a familiar burst of frustrated anger.

_If only I could somehow_ know I _could count on him_. They stared at each other for a moment more, until Remy broke away to answer Storm's quiet greeting.

Scott didn't like to admit how much Gambit's unpredictability disturbed him. There was no getting around the fact that the Cajun was one of the X-Men's cornerstone ground fighters. Logan was the other, and the two of them were a tremendously valuable counterpoint to the X-Men's airborne powerhouses. But despite their differences, Scott trusted Logan implicitly to be where he was needed and to get the job done, no matter how impossible the task. With Gambit, it was different. Though, as Storm was fond of reminding him, Remy had always been there when the X-Men needed him. Still, there was something about the other man that left Scott wondering if _this_ time might not be that first disappointment.

Scott shook his head sharply, banishing the thoughts, and turned his attention to the assembled X-Men. He looked them over, dismayed by how thin their ranks had become. Jean was no longer on active status because of the baby, and Rogue was out with an injury. Beast was also out because he was taking care of Rogue. The loss of his mutant powers was debilitating to Warren, taking him out as well, and Logan was simply absent. That left Storm, Bishop, Psylocke, Joseph, Cannonball, Gambit, Iceman, and himself. They seemed like a painfully small force to pit against the full might of Operation: Zero Tolerance.

"All right." Collectively, the X-Men turned at the sound of Scott's voice, their attention immediate and focused.

Scott took a deep breath. "I know you've all seen the same things on the news that I have, so I won't waste time describing the situation. What it comes down to is that OZT appears to be well-financed, well-supported and, at the moment, very popular, so it's unlikely that we're going to get our powers back by default." He surveyed the solemn faces that surrounded him. "We're going to have to fight for them, and that means finding a way to take on Zero Tolerance without the use of mutant powers."

The X-Men remained silent. Scott had the distinct impression that most of them had come to that conclusion for themselves.

He pressed on. "So, I'd like to use this session as a kind of re-evaluation, to gain a clearer understanding of each of your abilities without the benefit of your powers. For now, we'll concentrate on hand-to-hand and small arms skills, and then go on to small unit tactics, et cetera."

He received nods of agreement as Storm stepped forward. "I will volunteer to go first," she said.

Scott acquiesced with a nod and commanded the Danger Room to give them a set of practice mats, which appeared with a shimmer of Shi'ar technological magic.

He turned back to the X-Men. "Psylocke. Gambit. You two will be the controls for this." In Logan's absence, they were the two best hand-to-hand fighters on the team, and should be able to control each situation sufficiently to avoid injuries. He looked between them. "This first exercise will be pure sparring. Push your opponents to their limits, but I'm looking for an evaluation of skill, not endurance."

The two nodded their understanding and Scott expanded his attention to take in the rest of the group. "Psylocke and Storm, you're up first."

Scott watched the two women spar with a sense of unease. The loss of their powers was a reality they would simply have to cope with, but even this small evaluation exercise was enough to illustrate with painful clarity the scope of the challenge they now faced. Storm was a solid fighter, capable but not exceptional. Psylocke had the advantage not only in skill, but in physical strength, speed and flexibility, and rapidly overwhelmed her.

The good news, Scott thought as he watched them, was that there was nothing Zero Tolerance could do to strip away the character of the X-Men. Storm was at a distinct disadvantage and fell quickly, but not once did Scott see her strength of will or her raw determination waver. She was a woman of courage. He felt a renewal of hope. Skills could be learned. The greatest asset the X-Men possessed was something that no external force could take from them.

For the next round, Scott set Gambit against Bishop. He didn't expect to see any changes in Bishop's abilities, and was not disappointed. Bishop was a soldier, and though his natural affinity ran toward other arenas, he was very capable in the realm of hand-to-hand combat. What Scott found surprising was the visible change in Gambit. He had expected the loss of his powers to slow the Cajun mutant down, which it hadn't. But there was a definite change in the way the man fought, and after a few moments Scott realized what it was. The almost magical way Gambit had of ducking a blow before it was even conceived of-- the utterly uncanny way he had of avoiding damage-- was gone. Despite that, Scott admitted ruefully, the man was still very good, but it made him wonder.

After a few minutes, Scott called a halt. "Gambit, just what exactly _are_ your mutant powers?" he asked when the two men paused.

Gambit raised an eyebrow, his expression one of sour amusement. "It take y' four years t' get around t' askin' me dat?"

Scott blinked in surprise. It was true. As far as he knew, no one had ever insisted on defining Gambit's powers. "I guess so," he finally answered. "But it's obvious that you've lost something besides the ability to blow things up."

Gambit shrugged lightly, acknowledging the point. "S'pose dat's true enough."

Scott waited silently, swallowing a growl of frustration when the other volunteered nothing further. "So is this some kind of deep, dark secret I'm going to have to pry out of you with a crowbar?"

Gambit's expression didn't change, but the tiniest crinkling at the corners of his eyes hinted that he knew just exactly how much consternation he was causing his team leader.

"Non," Gambit said after a long pause. "It's a kind o' kinesthetic sense. I c'n track de speed an' direction of anyt'ing dat's movin' around me."

Scott digested the new information silently. Why hadn't anyone ever asked the man what he could do?

"How closely can you... track things?"

Gambit's answering grin was downright irritating. "I t'ink y' already know de answer t' dat one."

Scott's gaze narrowed as memory supplied the information. _Close enough to catch bullets and throw them back. Close enough to stand in a storm of laser fire but not get a scratch. Right. _

"What kind of radius?" he asked.

Gambit frowned as if debating whether to answer, but then shrugged. "If I push it... two hun'red yards."

Scott was mildly dumbfounded. "Why didn't you ever tell us any of this?" Had he known, he might have been able to put Gambit's kinesthetic power to use for the good of the team.

Gambit gave him a disgusted look. "Y' never asked." He crossed his arms. "An' it's pretty much a moot point now, anyway."

Scott considered the other man carefully. _Remy, do you really expect me to believe that you would have told me all of this at any time in the past four years, simply because I asked? _

He almost spoke the question aloud, but paused, unwilling. Not because he was afraid the answer was "No". He was dismayed to realize he was intimidated by the possibility that the answer might be "Yes", because that would mean that Gambit wasn't quite the man Scott thought he was.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Bobby watched the minor confrontation between Cyclops and Gambit with amusement. He was well acquainted with Remy's ways and was not the least bit surprised that Gambit had answered Scott's questions with complete honesty. It was all a matter of the intent behind the question. Bobby had the sneaking suspicion that this was the first time Scott had ever asked Remy a personal question out of pure curiosity. From Scott's expression, he was certain it was the first time Remy had ever given him a straight answer.

The interesting thing to Bobby was that he didn't think Gambit would have answered the question a couple of months ago. He could only guess at the reasons. Perhaps out of spite or simply to be annoying, Remy had always shown a lot less inclination to cooperate with Scott than with just about any of the other X-Men. Bobby was convinced that it wasn't entirely because of the ruse that hid Remy's real lifestyle from the team. There was some personal dislike in there as well.

Bobby wasn't certain why the change in Remy. Intuition told him it was a reflection of the other man's growing maturity. Taking on responsibility for the New York Guild had changed Remy in a lot of ways. Bobby was often amazed by the difference in his perspective over that of a year ago. He himself had matured so drastically in that time that he could now see some of the areas where Remy needed to grow.

Cyclops interrupted his thoughts. "Iceman, Psylocke, you're next."

Bobby walked over to the mats with a sense of nervous anticipation. He had been working consistently for more than a year to improve his hand-to-hand skills, but had never set himself against any of the X-Men besides Gambit. There were several men in the Guild who were highly skilled in different disciplines, and he had been taking advantage of the chance to learn from them. It hadn't seemed prudent to let the X-Men see how proficient he'd become, simply because it might raise questions as to where he'd learned his new skills.

Now, however, he was uncertain what to do. On one hand, the risk of raising too many questions was as real as ever. On the other, it had become important for Cyclops to know that Bobby could handle himself without his powers. The X-Men were probably going to need all of his ability to help carry out whatever missions were required to disarm Zero Tolerance's satellite network.

As he passed Gambit, the other paused in the act of toweling the sweat off his face and grinned.

"Don' hurt her, neh?" His smile was sly as he cut his gaze toward Psylocke.

Psylocke's eyebrows rose sharply in an expression of outrage and Bobby chuckled.

"I'll try not to," he answered dryly. In truth, he didn't have any idea whether he could best their resident ninja. Probably not. But the comment from Remy served as a message that he, too, understood the dilemma and thought that it was more important to let the X-Men know what Bobby could do.

To Betsy's credit, they started out slow. She was obviously trying to be fair, despite Gambit's poke. Bobby matched her, taking advantage of the opportunity to learn a little about her style. He'd watched her fight for years, but only recently with enough knowledge under his belt to understand what he was seeing.

Soon, their pace increased. He saw the brief flicker of surprise on Betsy's face as she realized he was still keeping up with her, but then he had no more time for such casual observations as she intensified her attacks. Bobby blocked her and retaliated in kind. He understood suddenly why Remy liked to spar with Psylocke even though they didn't get along any other time. She was just... fun. It was obvious she was enjoying the round, and the more intense they got, the more she liked it. Bobby found her enthusiasm infectious. Normally he wasn't much of a fan of this kind of fighting. He worked diligently at it, recognizing his need to become proficient, but it wasn't the same. Even sparring with Remy wasn't quite like this because Gambit was always holding back. Betsy fought without limits. For her, it was physical art and Bobby had to admit that he had never properly appreciated that aspect.

Soon, however, it became apparent that she was still quite a bit better than he. He managed to deflect a last flurry of blows, but the exchange left him disoriented and vulnerable, unable to mount a counter attack. To his relief, Psylocke threw up her hand in the signal to halt rather than administering the coup d'grace.

Grinning, she reached out to steady him. "My, you've been keeping busy."

Bobby schooled his expression into an innocent grin. "A little."

She threw back her head and uttered a silvered laugh, then glanced obliquely toward Gambit. "Remy only has two redeeming qualities, but they both seem to have worn off pretty well."

"Hey, now." Remy managed to look properly insulted and Betsy grinned at him as she stepped off the mat.

Then his hurt look evaporated, becoming a familiar mischievous smile. "So, do I get any guesses as t' what m' _other_ redeemin' quality is?"

Betsy chuckled, but Cyclops' communicator chimed before she could respond.

"Cyclops here." Bobby could see the unspoken questions in his eyes, even as he turned his attention to the caller.

"Scott, you'd better gather everyone in the War Room." Jean's voice was full of concern that was audible even through the tinny echo from the communicator. "We just received a message from Emma Frost."

A nervous hand gripped Bobby's stomach at her words. He saw his feelings reflected on the faces around him. They hadn't been able to get any answer from the Xavier school in Boston after the Zero Tolerance field was established. That in itself wasn't terribly alarming-- the kids were often gone for one reason or the other. But combined with the unknown agenda of OZT, the silence from Boston had become more ominous.

"We'll be right there." Scott's expression was grim as he surveyed the room.

#-#-#-#

Emma Frost looked terrible. It wasn't her appearance, which was as impeccable as always, but instead her carriage and the carefully veiled expression in her eyes. Because of their bizarre body-swapping experience, Bobby knew Emma better than most. What he saw in her now was a kind of carefully controlled panic.

"X-Men, I am not certain how long it will take for this message to reach you. Right now it is approximately six a.m. Eastern Standard Time, the morning after the damping field was activated."

Bobby arched an eyebrow, curious as to what kind of security she'd put on the transmission. It had taken two days to reach them.

Emma took a deep breath. Bobby was once again struck by how disturbed she was. "I will be brief and direct... Jonothan Starsmore is dead. The damage his psionic powers did to his chest and face when they first emerged was severe." She paused. "It was not a... total surprise that he could not survive without those powers."

A murmur of dismay filled the War Room as Emma continued. "Unfortunately, that is not the only casualty we've suffered." She pressed her lips together, her gaze sweeping blindly across them. "If Wolverine is there, I suggest you restrain him."

"Oh, no," Jean exclaimed softly, covering her mouth with one hand. Bobby's stomach twisted savagely.

"Jubilee has been captured by Zero Tolerance." Emma's composure cracked for a moment, then firmed before more than a hint of the cold fury behind her eyes could leak out. "The Prime Sentinels came for her. _Specifically_ for her. The rest of us weren't in their programming, and managed to escape."

The tight set to Emma's shoulders betrayed just how keenly she felt the loss of her charges.

"I have moved my remaining students to a place I believe will be beyond Bastion's reach and will protect them as best I am able. Sean has gone to Muir Island to be with Theresa. Even he does not know where we are."

Bobby was a little surprised by that, though he supposed he shouldn't be. Siryn had been airborne when the damping field was activated. She survived the fall but was still in critical condition. Moira had given them a hair-raising story about the effort to transfer her to Muir Island after anti-mutant activists forced their way into the hospital where she was originally treated.

Emma's gaze roved across the assembled X-Men once more. "I don't know if it will be safe to send any further messages, but I will do so if I can." She nodded once, and the screen went dark.

Silence enveloped the War Room. Bobby was filled with a hollow sense of dread. It was hard to imagine Jubilee gone, and even worse to wonder what Bastion intended for her. Jubes had been his partner-in-crime for so many practical jokes he could hardly remember them all and her fierce tenacity had always inspired him. Even though she hadn't lived at the mansion for a couple of years now, she was still very dear to his heart.

"I sure hope Logan hasn't gone after her," Scott said after a moment, his voice so low Bobby wasn't certain whether anyone else had heard the words. But then Jean turned.

"He wouldn't go without letting us know what happened to her, even if he wasn't willing to wait for backup." Even though she was trying to reassure him, her words were laced with a heavy dose of uncertainty.

Gambit cleared his throat, drawing their attention. Bobby turned toward him in surprise. Remy rarely contributed to discussions like these.

Gambit was threading a single card through the fingers of one hand, the motion hypnotically repetitive. He kept his head down as if watching the card, though Bobby knew he couldn't see it.

"Dis ain' exactly a pleasant t'ought, but is anybody wonderin' _why_ Bastion wanted Jubilee?"

A heavy silence followed, and Bobby saw the muscle in Scott's jaw clench. The knot of fear in his own stomach tightened.

No one answered, and after a while Scott prompted, "Do you have a theory, Gambit?" Bobby wasn't certain if what he heard in his voice was sarcasm or simply tension.

The restless weaving of the card never faltered. "She knows us. She knows where we live. She knows de security system."

The card snapped to a halt in his hand, face showing, and Bobby felt a chill. The suicide king seemed like a bad omen.

"She was the easiest target," Bishop added, his face abnormally grim. "If Bastion wants information about the X-Men, she's the ideal candidate."

"She is just a child," Storm protested, but the fear in her eyes testified to how little she believed that Jubilee's age would protect her.

"I don't think that matters to a man like Bastion." Joseph's expression was hard with anger, and Bobby studied him with sudden interest. With that expression, he looked far too much like Magneto for Bobby's comfort, yet the young X-Man didn't think the Master of Magnetism would ever have had such horror reflected from his eyes. Whatever had happened to Joseph, it had changed him radically.

"We should consider the mansion security breached, Cyclops." Bishop's fingers twitched as if he longed to reach for the rifle slung across his back. "It would be prudent to evacuate now, before Bastion's forces locate us."

Out of the corner of his eye, Bobby saw the card Gambit was holding disappear with a tiny flicker of motion. He could tell Remy was pleased. Bishop had done exactly what he had obviously been hoping he would, and had saved Gambit from having to make the suggestion himself.

Cyclops raised a hand. "Slow down, Bishop. I'm not going to abandon the mansion based on a string of suppositions. So far, all we know is that Jubilee has been captured."

Bishop opened his mouth to protest, but Cyclops cut him off. "I agree that it's a possibility."

The two men locked gazes for a moment then Bishop nodded sharply in acceptance. Scott went on, "However, I don't want to react in panic and endanger all our lives by acting rashly. We need to double check our security and take whatever precautions we can to prevent a breach. And, we should prepare for the _chance_ that we may need to leave the mansion in a hurry. But beyond that, we should be bending our efforts towards finding Jubilee and freeing her." He turned toward Ororo. "Storm?"

Storm nodded slowly. "I agree, Cyclops. The mansion's defenses are considerable. We should not be too quick to abandon their protection."

Cyclops surveyed the room. "Anyone else?"

For a moment, Bobby actually thought Gambit was going to argue the point. Bishop also seemed less than happy with the decision. His eyebrows were drawn in a deep scowl, but Bobby knew that he wouldn't contradict Scott on the same subject twice.

When no one answered with a differing view, Cyclops nodded. "Bishop, I'm putting you in charge of security. Do whatever you think necessary and draft anyone you need."

His scowl slightly diminished, Bishop nodded.

Cyclops turned to Jean. "Jean, you and Betsy are the most familiar with Cerebro. See what you can do to locate Jubilee."

The two women exchanged glances and Jean nodded.

"The rest of you should stick to your duty assignments for now," Scott concluded. "We'll rearrange the roster as necessary."

The gathered X-Men dispersed slowly, their conversations muted. Bobby angled across the room to fall in beside Gambit, who did not acknowledge him. Bobby held his tongue. This wasn't the place to talk, though he was sure they had a lot to talk about.

In the hall, Gambit flashed him a covert look. "Outside."

Bobby nodded fractionally in understanding.

#-#-#-#

Bobby stopped by his room to change and to fill Diedre in on what had happened before going out to meet Remy. He found him near the end of the drive, smoking and scuffing the soles of his sneakers across the blacktop. He looked for all the world like an overgrown teenager. Bobby had to shake his head sharply to dispel the impression and look beyond for the man he knew was hidden there.

They were standing just out of range of the gate cameras and audio pickup, so Bobby pitched his voice low, but didn't bother to switch to hand signs. The Guilds had a complex sign language, far richer than the military-style signals used by the X-Men, but it was still an effort to hold a conversation in the silent language. Besides, he wasn't entirely certain how well Remy would be able to see them.

"What do you think the chances are the Bastion knows where we are?" Just asking gave him a twinge.

Remy glanced up at him, his expression hidden. Bobby belatedly remembered that he cared a great deal for Jubilee as well. "Pretty high an' climbin'," he answered then took another drag on his cigarette.

A cold hand of terror reached up Bobby's throat and tried to choke him. _Don't think about it_, he warned himself. _Don't let it paralyze you_.

"What should we do?"

Remy gave him another of his hooded glances. "I jus' called Midnight an' told him dey were on."

Bobby's stomach twisted another notch. The disaster that Remy had been predicting for several months was becoming altogether too real. He was just grateful that they _had _been making preparations. He couldn't express the almost painful relief he felt at the thought of his parents being moved someplace safe and protected.

"What about the X-Men?"

Remy voiced a frustrated sigh and dropped his spent cigarette on the ground, where he stomped on it with excessive force. "Y' heard de same t'ing I did. Dey're determined t' stay. Ain' not'ing I c'n do or say right now t' change anybody's mind."

And that, Bobby reflected, was the downside of not telling the X-Men the truth. Even if he had proof, the X-Men might not believe Remy. They certainly weren't going to take his word for anything.

"Bishop agrees, and so does Joseph, I think. Jean, too, though she wasn't going to openly contradict Scott."

Remy nodded slowly. "Jean can' afford t' get caught in de middle o' de war zone. She's got de baby t' worry 'bout."

"Do you think she can sway Scott?"

Remy considered him for a moment, his expression thoughtful. "Maybe." He shrugged. "Worth a try, I guess." His gaze grew distant. "But if dat don' work... "

"What?"

Remy's red eyes fastened on him with eerie intensity. "Den I'll do whatever I have to t' keep dem alive."


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Remy paused at the entrance to the medlab. A small voice inside him insisted that he shouldn't be there. Not now, not with so many things happening. He had done what he could to set the Guild to watching for signs of danger, but that was precious little. Zero Tolerance was out of the thieves' league for the most part, and those who were skilled enough to take on Bastion and his program were already deployed in search of information on the Sentinels. That was of higher priority than watching for signs that a single reclusive school for mutants was about to be attacked.

Unfortunately, Remy's own ability to gather such information was extremely limited by the loss of his powers. There were still things he could do, of course, and he would as soon as dark fell and he and Bobby could escape the mansion unnoticed. He made himself a mental note to check with Bishop before then to make sure the other hadn't made any significant or unexpected changes to the security grid.

Despite all of that and the many other things he _should_ be doing, he found himself instead standing on the infirmary's threshold. The knot of nervous anticipation in his stomach had absolutely nothing to do with Zero Tolerance, either.

Hank noticed his presence first. He was standing beside Rogue's bed and appeared to be making some kind of cursory check of her condition. Remy couldn't quite see what the doctor held in his hands, but guessed he was checking blood pressure or some such from his motions.

Hank glanced up then motioned for Remy to come in. At first, Remy was afraid Rogue was still sleeping, but then she turned her head to look at him.

"Hi, sugah," she said softly. Remy crossed the room with quick strides.

"How y' feelin'?" he asked once he'd reached her bedside. He could see her un-injured hand clearly where it lay across the blankets. He knew from the sharpness of the image that she wasn't wearing gloves, but he resisted the urge to take her hand in his. The ground rules of their relationship had changed radically. He didn't have any idea how she was going to react.

Rogue shrugged. "O.k... ah guess." Her voice dropped. "Hank's been keepin' me up ta date." Remy could hear the tightness in her voice and guessed that Kitty's death in particular had hit her hard.

Ever discrete, Hank had already turned away and gathered up his tools. He retreated without comment, leaving Remy and Rogue to face each other across a gulf of silence.

Remy found himself fidgeting uncomfortably as he tried to think of something to say, and snorted in private disgust. _Dis is nuts. I ain' been dis nervous 'round a femme since I was a pup._

Rogue stared downward and fiddled with the blanket that covered her. Remy watched the shifting colors that made up her form with interest. Her temperature was rising, the warmth climbing from her chest, up her neck and into her cheeks. He could tell she uncomfortable, too, and was working up the nerve for something.

Finally, she heaved a sigh, her gaze still fixed on her lap. "Well, ah guess one of us is gonna have t' say it."

"Say what, chere?" He couldn't help the small knot of apprehension in his stomach.

The heat in her cheeks intensified. Had Remy been able to see her, he was certain she would have been blushing scarlet. She looked up at him, her body language betraying an odd reticence.

"Your place or mine?"

Remy stared at her blankly a moment before the meaning of the words sank in. Then he shook his head, not certain whether to be hurt or flattered that she had thought sex was foremost in his mind. What he could read from her heat signature and the way she held herself was... inconclusive, at best. But, since she'd started the conversation in the context of a joke, he figured he could follow through with that in fair safety. He summoned a grin and made a show of looking around the medlab.

"Mine, I t'ink," he concluded dryly. "Yours don' have a lock on de door."

Rogue actually giggled in response, and he felt a wash of relief. The short exchange seemed to break the tension. Remy was pleased by how easy it was after that to just talk with her. By unspoken agreement, they avoided discussing Kitty and Jubilee. Remy had the feeling that Rogue was badly shaken by the sudden loss of her powers, and that Kitty's death was something she hadn't fully come to terms with yet.

After a while, Rogue slid over to make room for him beside her on the wide bed. "No sense in makin' ya stand there all day, sugah. Might as well have a seat."

Remy studied her for a moment then accepted. He felt vaguely disappointed that the invitation wasn't more affectionate, but did his best not to show it.

_Girl c'n tell y' hurtin', Remy_. The constant activity and lack of sleep were taking their toll. His leg ached fiercely. He leaned back against the pillow with a sigh and crossed his ankles, grateful for the chance to rest despite his mixed feelings. A short ways away, Rogue rolled onto her side to face him, cradling her bandaged hand gingerly as she moved.

"Hank says ah can leave tomorrow mornin'."

Remy glanced at her. "Good news, neh?"

She nodded, her body language once again betraying uncertainty. "Yeah." She paused to take a breath. "Ah know this sounds stupid, but ah keep thinkin' that ah'm goin' ta go upstairs an' everybody's goin' ta be watchin' me." She ducked her head. "...watchin' _us_."

To see if they'd taken advantage of the sudden loss of Rogue's powers. Remy smiled. "Dey prob'ly will be. Y' know how de gossip goes in _dis_ house."

"Some help you are." Remy desperately wished he could see her expression. Her voice was a little too sharp.

Then she sighed softly. "Ah guess ah shouldn't care what people are thinkin'." She sounded like she'd been turning thoughts like these over in her mind for a while and wasn't very happy with where they led her.

Remy rolled onto his side so he could look at her directly. "Y' right 'bout dat. In de end, it ain' anybody's business but yours an' mine." He shrugged. "Ain' gon' stop folks from wonderin', t'ough."

Rogue didn't respond immediately. Remy watched her, taking particular note of her position. She lay with both arms tucked up against her, her posture reflecting an obvious reluctance. Nowhere did he see any hint that his touch would be welcomed.

Frustrated and more hurt than he would like to admit, he struggled to keep his expression neutral.

The silence stretched until Rogue cleared her throat. "Remy?"

"Oui?"

"When ya were a kid, did y' ever play one a those stupid kissin' games at a party or somethin'? Y'know, the kind where ya get matched up with some boy an' they make ya go in the closet an kiss each other?"

Remy was taken aback by the off-the-wall question, but he managed to swallow his surprise. "Not really, chere, but I know what y' talkin' 'bout." Having grown up on the street, he'd become sexually active long before running across one of those parties, so it hadn't ever held much appeal. "Y' sound like y' have, t'ough."

She made a sour noise. "Ah was eleven... more than a year before I got mah powers. Ah was supposed t' kiss Donny Knuffner."

Remy raised an eyebrow, tremendously curious. Rogue almost never talked about her childhood. "So what happened?"

She laughed a little, sounding embarrassed. "Poor kid. Ah was so mad because ah didn't want ta do it, so ah punched him an' ran."

Remy couldn't help but laugh. He could see Rogue doing something like that. "Is dat y' way o' warnin' me not t' be too forward, chere?" he teased.

Rogue was silent and Remy's smile died.

"No, sugah," she finally answered. "Ah guess what ah was tryin' ta say is that, with the Zero Tolerance dampin' field an' all--" She sighed resignedly. "Ah kinda feel like you an' ah have been shoved inta the closet."

Sudden understanding hit Remy. It was all about expectations. Their relationship had never gotten to the point where they could talk about those kinds of things, especially when it had to do with physical expectations.

In truth, there was really no understanding at all between them of what would happen if they ever had the opportunity to touch.

"Guess I c'n understand dat."

"Ya do?" Her voice was filled with hopeful surprise.

Remy had to bite back a sarcastic response. _Saints, Remy. Y' spend y' life bein' a playboy an' when y' finally find a woman t' get serious about, y' insulted dat she's afraid she gon' be treated like de ot'ers once her powers are out o' de way._ It hurt that she had so little faith in his love, yet he couldn't help but understand the source of her insecurity.

"Oui, chere, I do."

Rogue sighed as if he'd lifted a great weight from her mind. She didn't say anything though, and the silence settled between them once again.

Remy had just decided he needed to say something when Rogue moved. She raised herself gingerly to avoid bumping her injured hand, then resettled herself on the bed. The change was subtle, but it put her just close enough that she could reach out and lay her good hand over his, and, hesitantly, she did so.

Remy found himself grinning like an idiot as he curled his fingers around hers. Rogue laughed softly, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment and possibly something more. For a moment, Remy forgot about Zero Tolerance, forgot about the Guild. All of the things that constantly turned in the back of his mind fell away. He found himself getting completely lost in the indescribable warmth that spread through him.

They lay quietly like that, the only conversation between them the sensation of one hand against another. Remy stroked Rogue's palm absently with his thumb as his exhaustion settled on him like a soft weight, blurring everything. And slowly, without realizing it, he drifted off to sleep.

#-#-#-#

"Ready?" Bobby asked as he came into the room he shared with Diedre. Two small bags were packed and set out on the bed. Diedre sat beside them, her hands folded in her lap. She was dressed in jeans and a mint green sweater that clung attractively to her trim form, and Bobby admired her even as he crossed the room. She looked up as he approached. He was surprised to see the glimmer of tears in her eyes.

"Hey, what's wrong?" He knelt on the carpet in front of her and scooped up her hands in his.

"I don't want to leave," she answered simply.

Bobby stared into her sad blue eyes. "I don't want you to leave." He kissed her fingertips. "But I want you to be safe, and you won't be safe here."

"Neither will you."

Bobby sighed. _Ain't that the truth_. But that was definitely something she didn't need to hear right now.

"You know I have to stay with the X-Men."

Lowering her gaze, she nodded. Bobby released her hands and then sat beside her so he could take her in his arms. "I'll be fine," he promised, "and I'll come see you whenever I'm in the city." He brushed his lips against her hair. "This won't be for very long."

She sighed and glanced over at him, a hint of a smile in her eyes. "It'd better not. I'll be lonely without you." The corner of her mouth crooked playfully.

Bobby returned the smile with one of his own, a feeling of delight in his heart. She was always a gentle tease, and the depth of her love shone from her eyes with a clarity that took his breath away.

They spent the drive to New York talking about inconsequential things as if this were just a normal outing. Bobby had hopes that the X-Men would soon move to a more secure location and that he would be free to spend some time with Diedre in New York. But the truth was that he couldn't begin to guess what would happen while Zero Tolerance remained in place. It was possible that he wouldn't see his wife again for quite some time.

He kept his thoughts to himself as he pulled into the parking lot of a small bakery. It was a typical two-story brick building on the end of a row of similar shops. The buildings all shared communal walls, creating a continuous face of brick along the tree-lined street. The bakery sat on the corner and had the unusual benefit of a small lot capable of holding four cars. The shop was Clan-owned, and housed an access to the Guild complex. It was too conspicuous to go to the Club during the day, so the two mutants needed an alternate route. Bobby knew of several.

Together, he and Diedre got out of the car and walked into the store. They would need to trade code phrases with the shop's owner and then get instructions from him about how to proceed. Diedre's bags remained in the trunk of the car so they wouldn't draw attention.

There was a line in front of the counter, so the two mutants fell in at the back, content to wrap their arms around each other as they waited for their turn. The man at the front of the line had just accepted a brown bag from the man at the counter and turned away. As he turned, his gaze swept across the people behind him with a flat disinterest that shattered when he spied Bobby and Diedre.

Without warning, the man lunged toward them, his form shifting rapidly. His face became a mask of frenzied rage. Instinctively, Bobby dragged Diedre behind him and pulled out the handgun he habitually carried as a thief. In the space of two steps, the man changed from a recognizable human into something that had glowing red eyes beneath a shock of white hair. Bobby recognized it as it raised its hands and he knew from watching the news reports that the Sentinel would have weapons built into each arm.

Without thinking, Bobby fired directly into the Sentinel's face, then turned and ran, pushing Diedre out the door of the shop before him. Screams and shouts followed them out into the parking lot, but Bobby ignored them. He glanced back just in time to see the Sentinel leap through the front window of the bakery. Its face was covered with blood, but it did not seem otherwise incapacitated.

_They bleed?_ Bobby thought dizzily as he ran. _I thought the Sentinels were just machines._

Bobby turned and fired two more rounds at the menacing form that closed in on them, then followed Diedre around the corner and onto the crowded sidewalk. His hand remained locked in hers as they ducked and dodged through the lunchtime crowd that had become a sea of chaos because of the nearby gunfire. They had only a moment's respite as the Sentinel took to the air and flew down the street over the tops of the cars, its head turning from side to side as it scanned for them. Around them, people screamed and ran from the flying figure.

Bobby grabbed Diedre and shoved her through the nearest door. They plunged into a room filled with books and sunlight, and the musty scent of old things. Bobby didn't stop to look. He and Diedre raced toward the back of the little store as the woman behind the counter gaped at them. The back door that Bobby had hoped to find was in the farthest corner, a tall wooden monster that was secured with multiple loops of heavy chain and a padlock.

Growling curses under his breath, Bobby slid to a stop. Stepping in front of Diedre to shield her, he shot the lock, shattering it. He frantically unwrapped the door handle and shoved on the huge door. He was terrified that he might open the door only to find the Sentinel waiting outside for them, but he pushed that thought away with every ounce of determination he could find. _Never t'ink about how y' can lose_, Remy had told him on several occasions. _Always t'ink about how y' can win. People have a tendency t' do whatever dey're t'inkin' 'bout, whether dey want to o' not._

Bobby put his shoulder into the door. It burst open, sending him stumbling into the alley. He scanned it quickly, his thief's senses tuned for any signs of trouble. Seeing nothing, he brought Diedre out as well and they turned back toward the way they'd come in the hopes that the Sentinel would still be headed down the street in the other direction. His heart thudded painfully in his chest as he ran. Pain turned into pure horror as a familiar figure appeared in the mouth of the alley and raised its arms to fire.

Diedre uttered a tiny shriek as Bobby dragged her to the side of the alley, pressing them both against the flat brick wall. The Sentinel's white beam sizzled as it passed them, close enough for Bobby to feel its heat through his shirt. Bobby stared in numb terror as the Sentinel turned slightly, reorienting on them. The memory of Diedre falling limp in his arms as her blood poured out of her filled his mind. The Sentinel's laser would cut through her just as viciously as Michael's exoskeleton had, and this time he would have no power to save her.

From the corners of his vision, he caught sight of two dark forms up on the roof tops. Each held some kind of energy rifle. In the split second before the Sentinel fired at Bobby and Diedre, the alleyway filled with a storm of crisscrossing beams that enveloped the Sentinel and ripped it to shreds. Diedre buried her face against his shoulder, but Bobby watched mutely as the laser fire cut out, leaving nothing in its wake but the bleeding, mutilated form of the Sentinel.

After a moment, Bobby shook himself out of his stupor. He walked forward with Diedre. The two men on the rooftops used quick lines to rappel to the ground and met them beside the Sentinel. Bobby was startled to realize that he knew them both.

Bobby gratefully shook the hand that Marcus Black extended to him in greeting. "You have no idea how glad I am to see you," Bobby told him. "How did you know we were in trouble?"

Marcus exchanged looks with his partner, a man Bobby knew only distantly. "We're patrolling near all of the accesses, in case our people are spotted trying to get below. Too many Clan mutants are still living above ground." He shrugged. "We've had a couple of instances already."

Bobby began to tremble from the adrenaline still pumping through his system. "That Sentinel-- " he gestured toward the body at their feet, "It looked just like a regular person. I mean, it was in line getting a _bagel_ when it saw us." Something inside Bobby rebelled at the thought of a seemingly normal person suddenly leaping out and trying to kill him.

Marcus nodded his understanding. His expression was the grimmest Bobby could remember seeing. "Whatever these new Sentinels are... they used to be people."

Bobby looked down at the body that lay at his feet. "Cyborgs?" He could see some traces of machinery inside the Sentinel, particularly in the head and arms, but Marcus' point was valid. Bobby reflected that the news coverage of OZT had never mentioned this aspect of the Prime Sentinels.

Marcus shrugged. "I don't know. Something like that, anyway." He looked around. "We'd better finish this conversation inside. The last thing we need is to be around when this thing's friends show up."

"Right." Bobby felt a twinge of panic at the thought of another Sentinel but suppressed it.

As the four of them slipped quietly inside the bakery, Bobby turned to Marcus. "Whose idea was the patrols?"

"The Guildmaster's, of course." Marcus gave him an odd look as if he were surprised Bobby didn't know that. "We've got two-man patrols around each of the complex entrances and a couple more floating around the city, particularly in the neighborhoods where groups of our people are still living."

Bobby swallowed a snort. _Standard X-Men tactic when we have a lot of ground to cover and no idea of where the trouble is going to come from_.

They moved down into the tunnels leading to the Guild complex. Bobby was both amazed and disturbed by the transformation. They passed through three rings of sentries armed with metal detectors and several types of imaging technology. He was reassured that a Prime Sentinel wouldn't be able to get into the complex unnoticed, but it was unnerving to be scrutinized so closely by people he was coming to think of as kin.

The complex itself was a hive of activity. The dust that covered many portions of the underground caverns had been turned into a film of grime by the constant passage of feet. People passed them going every which direction. Some carted suitcases, others were moving pieces of furniture. Children chased each other through the crowded tunnels, their laughter heartening in the general air of unease that permeated the complex.

"It's amazing," Diedre breathed.

Marcus nodded. "Once the Sentinels started targeting mutants, people came flooding down here. Nobody wants to live in the city right now."

"I can't blame them." Bobby felt a hard knot of anger growing in his stomach. "The news is playing down the Sentinels. We haven't seen anything to suggest they're hunting mutants." And since Jean and Betsy had co-opted Cerebro to search for Jubilee, they hadn't been watching the tallies to see if there were an unusually high number of mutant deaths occurring.

Marcus voice was tight. "Well, they are, and there's no way to tell who's an ordinary person and who's a Sentinel."

Having just experienced it for himself, Bobby had no reply.

Marcus and his partner left them to return to their patrol once they'd reported the destruction of the Sentinel. Bobby and took a place in line as they waited for their turn to get a room assignment. Bobby was surprised by the amount of organization amid the chaos. Artur and his assistants were doing an amazing job of managing the influx, especially considering that Remy had only started them on this project a couple of weeks earlier.

It took a couple of hours, but they finally got their instructions from Artur and made their way to the stone chamber that was now their home in the Guild complex. Diedre voiced a small sigh of disappointment when she saw that the furnishings consisted of a single mattress on the floor and a small table with a rather ugly yellow lamp. But then she straightened her shoulders resolutely.

"I suppose I can work on decorating while you're gone."

Bobby chuckled and hugged her. "Have fun."

Diedre turned in his arms, her expression suddenly frightened and filled with a passionate yearning that made his breath catch. "Be careful, Bobby."

Bobby leaned down and kissed her. Her response was immediate. It drove away all of his lingering thoughts as her arms closed around his neck. Bobby held her tightly as all of the emotions he'd forced away while the Sentinel was bearing down on them came boiling out of him in desperate longing.

With one hand, he managed to turn the lock on the door, so they were undisturbed as they said their goodbyes.

#-#-#-#

Bobby wrinkled his nose at the acrid smell that assaulted his nose as soon as he stepped into the room that housed Cerebro. Jean and Betsy sat together at the console, while Scott stood off to the side, watching impatiently.

Scott looked up as he entered. "Where have you been?" he asked and Bobby raised an eyebrow at the sharpness of his tone. Privately, however, he took it as an encouraging sign that Scott might not be as certain of the decision to stay in the mansion as he pretended. After what Bobby had learned about the Sentinels, that was very good news.

Bobby hadn't yet spoken to Remy about what happened in New York. He'd only gotten back a short time ago, in fact. When he'd asked, Cerebro had told him Gambit was in the infirmary, but he simply couldn't bring himself to interrupt. It was important news, but news that could wait long enough to give the two of them some time alone. So instead he had gone looking for Scott, to see if anything had changed while he was gone.

After a moment's hesitation, Bobby decided to push Scott a little bit. "I took Diedre to her parents'," he answered the question calmly. "It's too dangerous here."

Scott's expression flickered then disappeared completely. Bobby swallowed a satisfied smile. He was honestly relieved to know Diedre would be safely tucked away in the Guild complex, despite how much he might miss her presence. And, with any luck, he would still be able to find time to go see her. Right now, however, the most important thing was to make sure the X-Men weren't about to fall into OZT's clutches.

Jean looked over at the exchange, her expression interested, and Bobby realized suddenly that the smell was emanating from the bowl in her hands. It appeared to be filled with a salad of some sort. She took another bite as he watched.

"What in the world are you eating?" he asked curiously.

Jean glanced down at her meal. "Spinach."

"With vinegar," Betsy added without taking her attention away from the screen in front of her. She was currently wearing the heavy Cerebro interface on her head, but that didn't keep her from joining the conversation.

Bobby made a face. "Vinegar?" A lot of vinegar, from the smell of it.

Jean shrugged. "It's about the only thing I can keep down right now. That, and lemons."

"Which she eats peel and all," Betsy chimed in.

Jean gave her a dirty look.

"Lemon _peels_?" Bobby wasn't certain he dared laugh.

Jean grimaced good-naturedly. "Hank said I should eat whatever I have cravings for, so long as it's real food."

"Guess that depends on your definition of 'real'."

"Bobby!" Jean grinned despite herself.

Bobby echoed her smile, but it quickly died as he focused his attention on the screens. "Any luck?"

Jean and Betsy both sobered. Jean shook her head. "No, not yet."

"We have to assume OZT is keeping her in a shielded facility." Betsy glanced over at Scott as if punctuating an earlier discussion that Bobby had missed. "_If _she's still alive."

Beside Bobby, Scott blanched ever so slightly and Bobby felt his stomach tighten. That was a frightening thought, but a legitimate one.

"We have to believe Jubilee is still alive," Scott grated, the knotted muscle in his jaw twitching reflexively. "OZT wouldn't have taken her if they planned to just kill her."

_Once they've gotten what they want, they_ will _kill her_, Bobby argued silently. _And she's just a girl_. For him, torture had become an unpleasant reality. Not necessarily the mad scientist variety, though that did exist, but the simple expedience of breaking bones until the poor slob in question gave up the required information. Bobby didn't have much in the way of personal exposure, but it was a fact of life in the circles he sometimes frequented. Remy spoke so matter-of-factly about the subject that it sometimes gave him chills. But then, Remy had scars. Bobby now knew enough to guess how he'd gotten them.

If he was brutally honest with himself, he didn't have much hope for his friend at all. Not if this Bastion was a coldly ruthless as he appeared.

Shaking his head, he turned to Scott. "Sorry, Fearless, Betsy's right. And even if she is still alive, Bastion isn't going to store her someplace where we can find her."

Three pairs of eyes fastened on him with varying degrees of surprise. Bobby realized with a start of apprehension that he'd slipped very badly out of character_. Idiot!_ he scolded himself_. Talking to Scott like a professional. What are you thinking?_

"What, don't I get to have an opinion?" He whined defensively and saw an immediate response of anger in Scott's eyes. Whining annoyed the man almost as much as outright defiance, which was a good thing for Bobby. There was no way he would ever be able to maintain a rebellious bad-boy image like Remy's. Falling back on his old, immature ways was usually his best recourse when he needed to distract Scott.

After a moment, Scott's anger shaded into exasperation. He turned back toward Cerebro's displays. He was obviously dropping the subject. Betsy just shook her head as if puzzled by Bobby's behavior, but Jean tossed him one last glance as she, too, turned away and Bobby could have sworn she was hiding a smile.

Bobby felt a small burst of adrenaline. _How much does she know?_ he wondered for about the hundredth time. For once he found himself hoping that it was more rather than less. If she knew the truth about Remy, then she would certainly have recognized the danger that Remy had tried so subtly to warn them of.

Jean didn't give him any further insight, and Bobby allowed himself to fade into the background. He watched the women work quietly, until Jean's comment jerked him out of his thoughts.

"Scott, do you think Bishop could be right?" Jean's gaze was fastened on the screens as she helped Betsy, but she spared her husband a single concerned look. Bobby wanted to cheer.

Scott frowned, his brow wrinkling. Bobby found it strange to be able to see his entire face, though it did make reading him a little easier.

"Of course he _could_ be," Scott finally answered. "But I don't think that Jubilee knows enough about our security system to be a threat, _if _that's why Bastion kidnapped her. She hasn't lived here for almost two years. We've made a lot of changes since then."

Jean chewed on her lip. "Maybe." She shrugged. "I guess I'm just not convinced those changes have been significant enough to protect us. It might be a good idea to ask someone who can give a more informed opinion."

Scott cocked an eyebrow, his expression skeptical. "Who would that be?"

Jean cut her eyes toward him. We _do_ have a trained thief in the house who has proven on several occasions that he can break the mansion's security." She sounded vaguely irritated and Bobby seconded her feelings emphatically.

Scott stared at her for several long moments, his expression unreadable. "Why are you so worried about this?" he asked, sounding puzzled.

Jean straightened unconsciously and met his gaze. "Because I'm not an X-Man any more, Scott. I'm not a soldier." She gestured aimlessly as she tried to put her thoughts into words. "I'm not even a mutant." Sighing, she let her hands fall into her lap. "I'm just a woman-- a mother. How can I protect our baby if I have a bullseye painted on my forehead?"

Bobby could tell immediately that her words had cut to the root of Scott's private fears. Even if the X-Men's leader would never admit those fears, Bobby could see the shadow in his eyes that spoke volumes about his internal conflict.

After a moment, Scott sighed resignedly. "All right. I'll talk to Gambit if it'll make you feel better."

Jean smiled. "Thank you."

Bobby forced himself to maintain an expression of polite interest, but inside he couldn't help a wide grin. _Jean, you're the best_, he thought toward her, even though she couldn't hear him. No matter what Remy's reservations, Bobby was very glad he'd trusted her that day. Now, he could only hope that Gambit would be able to convince Scott of the danger they were in.

#-#-#-#

Scott paused in the doorway to the medlab, surprised despite himself, then crossed quietly to where Hank reclined in his lab chair, apparently resting as he sipped from a steaming mug. The lights in the lab were dimmed. Hank's form was illuminated by the glow from the computer screen behind him.

Scott raised an eyebrow in silent question, canting his head toward the single occupied bed.

Hank grinned. "They're downright cute when they're asleep, aren't they?" His voice barely rose above a whisper.

Scott only shook his head. Remy and Rogue were curled up like a couple of children on the wide bed, their foreheads nearly touching.

"Just so long as they're not arguing," he answered in the same low tone.

Hank chuckled lightly. "Did you need something?"

Scott shrugged. "I was looking for Remy. I wasn't expecting to have to wake him up, though."

Hank paused and lowered his mug. "Actually, I'd prefer you didn't."

"Didn't what?"

"Wake Gambit. He was evidencing several symptoms of exhaustion when he came to visit Rogue. I would prefer to let him sleep as long as possible."

Scott was puzzled. "Exhaustion? He looked like he had a hangover to me."

Hank shrugged lightly. "The two can appear very similar."

Scott frowned and turned to look more closely at Gambit, his thoughts turning. Finally, he returned his gaze to his friend's.

"Hank, is it just me, or am I really _that_ completely in the dark about Remy?"

Hank's eyebrows rose fractionally. "What do you mean?"

Scott shrugged uncomfortably. "I don't know. It just seems like every time I turn around someone is telling me I'm overreacting because I don't know Remy well enough." He made a frustrated gesture. "If it isn't Bobby, then it's you, or Jean." He sat down in the empty chair beside Hank's desk with a resigned sigh. "I tell you, Hank, the man drives me up the wall."

Hank chuckled softly. "That goes without saying." Then he sobered. "Unfortunately, I suspect that Gambit does it deliberately."

Scott frowned. "Does what?"

"Irritates you."

Scott was at a loss for how to respond. Of course he was aware that Remy's attempts to provoke him were sometimes deliberate. It was just one of several juvenile traits that frustrated him no end, but Hank seemed amused rather than disapproving.

"You seem to find that awfully entertaining."

Hank's grin turned wry. "From a certain perspective, I suppose it is. Just like Bobby's practical jokes are fun so long as you aren't the one with peanut butter and saltines in your fur."

Scott swallowed a snort of laughter. "I think I missed that one. What happened?"

Hank's response was dry. "It was his version of tar and feathering. I locked him in the women's bathroom at the library for a number of hours because he wouldn't let me study, and that was his payback."

Scott raised an eyebrow. "Seems like a bit of overkill to me."

Hank grinned. "Well, the head librarian found him there. She was... unpleasant, to say the least."

Scott gave in and laughed quietly at the schoolboy pranks, but then returned to the subject at hand. "All right. So Remy annoys me on purpose. Why? Why me? Or are you going to tell me it's purely his dislike of any and all kinds of authority." He paused. "He doesn't do this to Storm."

A slow smile spread across Hank's face and Scott rolled his eyes.

"So if I were a woman, I wouldn't be having this problem?"

Hank's smile spread. "Possibly. It's quite an image."

Scott gave him a disgusted look. "Seriously, Hank."

Hank sobered. "Seriously? I suppose my best 'educated' guess is that you are on the receiving end of a rather extensive sleight-of-hand. The tool of the con man is distraction, after all."

Scott narrowed his eyes as the meaning of Hank's words sank in. "Distract me from what, I wonder."

Hank shrugged. "I have no idea, but I haven't seen anything to suggest I should find out."

Scott watched his friend for several long moments. "You trust him, don't you?"

Hank lifted an eyebrow. "Does that surprise you?" Then he nodded. "Yes, I do."

"Why?"

Hank cocked his head as he considered his answer. "If there were nothing more to Gambit than the scruffy, irresponsible scoundrel we see, he would have died on the street after that fight. In fact, he was clinically dead when we arrived here, but somehow Jean managed to hang on to him." He spread his hands. "I don't know how. The only thing she would tell me afterward was that his will is tremendously strong and he simply _refused_ to die." Hank shrugged. "A two-bit criminal doesn't have that kind of character."

Scott mulled his thoughts silently. _Character_ was not an attribute he ascribed to Remy. Was there an entire facet to the man that he simply hadn't ever seen?

"As further evidence," Hank went on, "let me add this. I don't know if you or the other X-Men are truly aware of the extent of the injuries Remy suffered."

Scott bit back his instinctive response and let the other man continue.

"He was tremendously lucky with the gut wound. It missed the spine, missed the liver... " Hank eyebrows rose, punctuating his words. "His leg, however... " He looked over at Scott. "Do you realize that I debated amputation for more than a week before Remy's condition really started to turn around?"

Scott's stomach knotted at the thought. They all faced the possibility of crippling or deadly injuries in their roles as X-Men, but to come even this close made the possibilities too real for comfort.

"No, I didn't realize that."

Hank nodded. "I wasn't sure what Jean had told you. The point I'm making, though, is that Remy probably should not ever have walked again. Most people wouldn't have, even with our Shi'ar equipment."

Scott favored him with a puzzled frown. "Are you saying he did something miraculous?"

Hank's smile was amused as he shook his head. "No, not miraculous. Amazing, perhaps." He took another sip of his tea. "Most people do not have the determination to come back from that kind of injury. The rehabilitation is too hard and too painful." He paused, thinking. "Remy drove himself far harder than I would have, or even could have. He set his own goals and pushed himself mercilessly until he reached them-- sometimes to the point where I was cringing to watch. But he never gave up."

Scott remained puzzled. "That certainly doesn't sound like the Gambit I know."

Hank nodded in agreement. "I can't begin to explain why he keeps all that drive bottled up and instead spends his days so frivolously..." He spread his hands helplessly. "But it's his choice. Just don't be fooled into thinking that's all there is to him."

In unspoken accord, the two turned to look at the object of their discussion who remained soundly asleep, oblivious to their attention. The silence stretched between them.

"So, is it something important you wanted to talk to Remy about?" Hank asked after a while.

Scott shook his head, his mind still churning. "I'm... not sure. But it can wait a while, I suppose."


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Remy closed his eyes, glad to rest for a moment though he would never have admitted to being even the slightest bit tired. It had been a strange few weeks for the twelve-year-old. He remained deeply uncertain about this LeBeau man, despite the kindness he'd shown Remy so far-- or perhaps because of it. Nothing was free on the streets, but for the life of him, Remy couldn't figure out what this man wanted from him. Little things like wearing the clothes LeBeau brought him and brushing his hair were simple enough. And he could endure the endless corrections about how to stand and how to behave at Misseur LeBeau's table and how to eat with the knife and fork that were so much less efficient than his fingers... He heaved a sigh he hoped couldn't be heard by the two men on the other side of the door. But this _reading_...

Remy was well aware that the hundreds of signs that lined the streets of New Orleans meant something. In fact, he knew them all on sight and a bunch of other words as well. But it was downright baffling that LeBeau wanted to break each of the words up into pieces and give different names to all of the parts.

"Pere, are y' sure y' wan' t' continue wit' dis?" The slightly muffled voice from the other side of the door belonged to Henri. He was LeBeau's oldest son, and the only other member of the household that did more than simply tolerate Remy's presence.

"O' course I do, Henri. He'll get it eventually."

Henri barked a laugh. "Oui, if y' pound his thick head against de wall enough times, he prob'ly will." He sobered abruptly. "But what're y' tryin' t' accomplish here, eh? Y' keep tellin' me dis boy's special-- different-- but he's half-grown already an' as wild as dey come. What good he gon' be t' de Guild if y' can' even teach him de most basic t'ings?"

Remy's hands closed unconsciously into fists at the flood of information. _Different? Special? How? Why? What 'things'? What did these people really want?_ A hard knot of fear tightened his gut. His instincts screamed at him to run now while he had the chance. But instead he remained frozen in his place outside the door, waiting for LeBeau's answer.

LeBeau's chuckle was hardly reassuring. "Do y' know what our resident gutter snipe did yesterday?" There was a short pause. "He managed t' sneak an entire handful o' Miss Adelle's treats, right out from under her nose."

Remy's mouth began to water at the memory. He liked Miss Adelle, the family's cook. She was a big, cheerful woman and though she didn't seem to like him particularly, her absolutely wonderful food more than made up for that. He'd never tasted anything like her molasses treats. He'd been more than a little angry when she limited him to only one of the sweet, sticky candies. She'd rapped him smartly across the knuckles with her wooden ladle when he tried to take another one despite her warning, and that was when he'd decided that he would have to get a little sneakier if he wanted any more of them.

"I watched him, Henri." LeBeau continued with his story. Remy found it strange that he seemed so pleased. He was also dismayed to think that the man had been watching him. Remy had not had even a suspicion that he was there, and that was a little scary. LeBeau was the quietest man he'd ever met.

"He sat in de corner o' de kitchen, sulkin', but what he was really doin' was watchin' Adelle. She was busy fixin' de dinner, so she didn' notice dat he was timin' her." There was a significant pause. "He only had a five second window, but he was across de room, got what he wanted an' was out de door. No excess motion. No wasted time. Adelle jus' stood dere wit' her back turned. She never heard a t'ing."

"So de boy c'n steal a few candies." Henri didn't sound pleased like his father, and the fact that they knew what he'd done made Remy nervous. Still, LeBeau was happy with him, and his word was law in the house. No one would do anything to him that LeBeau didn't approve of.

"De boy made a pinch, Henri." LeBeau sounded like he was trying to impress something on his son, but Remy couldn't quite follow his meaning. "A blindingly simple one t' be sure, but a pinch none de less. De mind is dere. So are de instincts. He jus' needs t' be taught."

"But taught how t' read, Pere? An' how t' use a fork? By de time dis boy's ready t' apprentice, he'll be grown. De apprentices his age are startin' t' learn circuits an' chemistry. How can he ever keep up?"

Remy's mind was whirling. He still didn't understand what LeBeau had in mind for him, but it was beginning to sound like a long-term thing. It also sounded like Henri didn't think he could do whatever it was. Somewhere deep inside that assessment angered him, but on the surface it barely fazed him. A gutter rat was a gutter rat, after all. Life was a matter of staying alive and finding enough to eat. Remy had never spent much time considering anything beyond that.

"I'll make y' a wager," LeBeau said, sounding smug. "I get three months t' teach him t' read. Not jus' his name or anyt'ing like dat, but t' really read. If I'm successful, y' agree t' stand wit' me when I adopt de boy, an' y' agree t' help me teach him."

_Adopt?_ Remy thought dazedly. _As in a real family? A last name? Dat kind of 'adopt'?_

"An' if y' can' teach him, Pere?" Henri still sounded skeptical.

Remy found himself holding his breath. His heart was pounding in his chest for no reason he could define, except that he'd never thought about having a family for real. That was just a dream, a happy story to tell the little ones to help them fall asleep when their stomachs were painfully empty.

LeBeau sighed softly. "If I can' teach him... I'll send him back t' de street. Wit'out y' support, de Council c'n outvote me on dat."

Henri uttered a snort, but after a moment he acquiesced. "Very well. I agree, Pere."

There was a shuffle of bodies moving, then Remy heard the sound of a door opening and closing and he guessed that Henri had left by one of the other doors to the room.

"Remy, come here."

Remy jumped a foot at the sudden command from inside. Heart pounding in terror, he turned instinctively to run, but something stopped him and he instead found himself going to the door and creeping cautiously into the room. LeBeau sat in one of the beautiful chairs that populated his house, his legs crossed and his hands folded calmly in his lap. He did not seem the least surprised to discover Remy eavesdropping outside the door. In fact, he was smiling.

"Did y' hear, Remy?"

"Did I hear what, Misseur?" Remy was pretty good at playing innocent. He had long ago discovered that having big blue eyes was an asset, and had cultivated an angelic face to go with them. Women were almost sure to fall for it. Men were a little less certain...

"Don' try dat game wit' me, boy." LeBeau's voice was sharp.

Remy dropped the pretense. "Oui, Misseur." LeBeau continued to stare at him. "I heard y'." Remy steeled himself for whatever the man might have in mind as punishment for listening in on his conversation.

Instead, LeBeau only nodded. "Good."

_Good?_ Remy couldn't help the surprise that showed on his face.

LeBeau's smile turned wry. "Oui, chile. Now y' understand de stakes an' what it'll take f' y' t' stay here."

Remy stared at him in confusion. _Stay?_ The word swam around in his brain until it collided with 'adopt' and he was stunned to realize that this man was really offering him the impossible. His stomach tried to turn itself inside out as he considered the concept, but hope was far too painful a thing for him to want to encourage it. He'd learned that lesson well.

His eyes narrowed. "Stay here? Why should I?" he asked LeBeau with as much belligerence as he could muster.

LeBeau's smile died. He pinned Remy with a solemn, intimidating stare. "Because dis is prob'ly de only chance y' gon' get t' get off de street, boy. Y' got what it takes. I wouldn' have brought y' here if y' didn'."

Remy eyed him suspiciously. In his experience, the only way to get off the street was to find yourself a sugar daddy, and he didn't have any intention of paying his way out like _that_.

LeBeau seemed to know what he was thinking. "Do y' know what I do f' a livin', Remy?" he asked quietly.

Remy shook his head, suddenly uncertain.

LeBeau's eyebrows twitched. "I'm a professional t'ief. An' I'm givin' y' de chance t' learn de craft." His stare was uncompromising. "I'll take y' in as m' own blood an' teach y' everyt'ing I know. Y' never gon' have t' worry 'bout where y' next meal be comin' from o' what kind o' danger might be sneakin' up on y' in de dark. De Guild looks after its own. An' when y' grown-- if y' become de t'ief I t'ink y c'n-- dere's no limit t' what y' could do o' where y' could go."

Spellbound by the images LeBeau was creating for him, Remy barely managed to stutter the question that hovered in the forefront of his mind. "W-what do I have t' do?"

LeBeau smiled warmly, his intensity vanishing. "Right now, all y' have t' do is learn t' read."

#-#-#-#

Remy LeBeau took a deep breath as he let go of the memories. _I hate Braille_, he thought sourly. It was almost useless to him as a thief, but the prospect of not being able to read was more than enough motivation for him to start resurrecting his limited knowledge. It was strange, perhaps, but the conceptual breakthrough of understanding what Jean Luc had been trying to teach him was almost like a rebirth. If Remy were ever asked to point to the specific time and place where his entire life had changed, that would be it. That was the moment that his life on the streets ended and his future began. Everything he was today he owed in some way to Jean Luc LeBeau, and was hinged on that first, crucial understanding.

Sighing, Remy closed the Braille tutorial he had kept and pushed it away. When he'd discovered that losing his powers would also cost him his sight, he'd made an effort to learn the language, but he had never honestly expected to lose his powers in a non-combat situation. Now it bothered him deeply that he couldn't read the technical briefs the Guild had recovered on the Prime Sentinels, just like it bothered him that he couldn't access his email. Not just because it was frustrating and inconvenient. No, if he were truly honest with himself he would have to admit that the loss of that skill terrified him in some deep corner of his heart. He knew it was ridiculous to think he would end up back on the street. Losing his powers hadn't wiped out one iota of the knowledge or intelligence resident in his head, and those were the things that mattered. But he was still disturbed.

The shrill ring of his cell phone startled him out of his thoughts. Remy had taken to leaving it on whenever he was in his room at the mansion, just to make himself a little more accessible.

"'LeBeau."

"Remy, we have a problem." Dyson sounded perturbed, which was an unusual event. Remy's general sense of unease coalesced into a tiny shiver of apprehension.

"What is it?"

"Xavier's accounts have been raided. They didn't even trip my alarms on the personal estate, so I didn't know about it until they started into the school money. The personal stuff is gone and I'm sitting here watching the school's accounts drain away as we speak."

Remy sat up in his chair, biting his lip to restrain the instinctive panic reaction. If Bastion had found them, it was more likely that he would attack the mansion first, not the bank accounts.

"Do y' know who's doin' it? C'n y' stop dem?"

"No and no." Dyson paused. "Remy, whoever this is has a _lot_ of power behind them. The FCC codes just locked up when these guys came in. I'm paralyzed. There's not a thing I can do to salvage anything from the Xavier Institute."

"What about de rest?" Losing Xavier's money was a blow, but a more of an inconvenience than anything else. The Shi'ar equipment and Cerebro were the real treasures, and those would require a physical assault if someone wanted to get them.

"You're safe, as far as I can tell. I haven't seen any signs that our thugee friends here have been sniffing around any of your accounts. Worthington Industries is a different story, though. There are plenty of ties between it and Xavier."

"Y' t'ink dey'll go after Worthington next?" Remy found himself drumming his fingers on the desktop and forced himself to stop.

"I do. I-- Hang on." Dyson muttered under his breath at something taking place on his end.

In the midst of the tense silence, Remy's communicator beeped. He answered it with a growing sense of impending disaster. The X-Men had a unique relationship with the phenomenon of coincidence. Whatever this was, it was almost guaranteed to be worse than the financial disaster Dyson had brought him.

"All X-Men report to the War Room now." That was Scott and he sounded more uptight than usual. Remy felt his stomach sink.

He acknowledged the command then turned back to the cell phone. "Dyson, I hate t' do dis to y', but I've got t' go."

"What?" He could almost hear Dyson shaking his head. "Wait. What do you want me to do about Worthington? They're making some forays into the corporate security protocols already."

Remy grabbed his duster, juggling the phone as he put it on. "Dey gon' get t' Worthington's money?"

"Fifteen minutes, tops."

Remy muttered a string of curses under his breath. It was hard enough to juggle being a thief and an X-Man. It was impossible for him to do both at the same time. "What c'n y' do t' stop dem?"

Dyson laughed. "Me? Nothing. The only way to save that money is to drain it out ourselves before they get there and hope I can hide it fast enough and well enough that they can't find it again."

Remy picked up his bo staff with his free hand and walked out of his room. "So do it."

Dyson made an annoyed sound. "I _can't_, Remy. I can't get through the security any faster than these guys are doing it. I told you, these are pros."

Remy took the stairs down to the main floor of the mansion, but then paused at the bottom. The cellular transmission would be cut off as soon as he went below ground level because of the heavy blast shielding that helped protect the lower levels from an above ground strike.

"So what c'n we do?"

"Well, if you've got a magic wand that'll grant me access to Worthington Industries' core, that would help."

Realization struck Remy and he began to chuckle. "I c'n go one better dan dat. Hang on, Dyson. I'm gon' transfer y' t' a different system here. De line'll be blank f' a bit, but when I come back, I'll have y' access ready."

"Right." Dyson didn't sound entirely convinced. "The clock's down to about twelve minutes."

"Got it." Remy let the hand that still held the phone fall to his side, too far away to pick up his words as he addressed Cerebro and instructed the computer to transfer his cellular call to the mansion's phone system and route it to the War Room. That done, he folded up the phone and pocketed it, then turned and headed back up the stairs.

#-#-#-#

Scott Summers paced a short track across the head of the large table that occupied the War Room as he waited for the last few X-Men to arrive. His stomach was twisted into a tight knot of fear and adrenaline, even though he did not yet know what the crisis was. It was enough to read the expression in Logan's eyes.

Logan sat near the head of the table, his stance calm but his appearance disturbing. Scott often forgot the Canadian's age because his healing factor kept him eternally young, but now there were streaks of silver in the dark hair and a few more lines in the grim face. As more time passed without his powers, Scott knew, Logan's body would eventually catch up to his eighty plus years of age. Beyond that, Logan was covered in blood, much of which was old enough to have dried and crusted, and he looked like he hadn't had a bath or a minute of sleep since leaving the mansion almost a week earlier. But at least the blood didn't appear to be Logan's for the most part.

Scott mentally shook his head. At another time, the evidence decorating Logan's shirt would have angered him. Today he was simply glad it was the enemy and not his own that had been hurt, and a small part of him felt shamed by the callous thought.

Storm entered the room then, accompanied by Sam and Bishop. That left only three of their members absent. Beast had escorted Rogue to the table and then gone to check on Warren, so he would be a little later than the others. Gambit could be anywhere, though at least he'd answered the summons.

Storm greeted Logan with a relieved smile as she settled in her customary place at the table.

"What has happened?" she asked Logan, her posture as casual as his. A deep furrow between her brows was the only visible sign of her concern.

Logan's gaze swept the table, as if he were deciding whether to answer or to wait for the last few X-Men to arrive, but then he shrugged and leaned forward. He split his attention between Ororo and Scott, and Scott felt a tiny chill of apprehension. Usually, Logan talked to the team as a whole when he had information to give, but when the threat was immediate his military training tended to kick in. The fact that he focused solely on the two leaders of the X-Men gave Scott a glimpse of how serious Logan considered the situation to be.

"Found out a couple o' things," Logan said, his gravely voice rougher than usual. "The first is that there's a full-scale political war brewin' over Zero Tolerance, an' the X-Men are on the agenda fer both sides." He met Scott's gaze for a moment, the blue eyes hard and sad. Scott was certain he already knew about Jubilee, but his voice gave nothing away.

"I ran inta Val Cooper. She had some interestin' things ta say, off the record." He leaned back in his seat. "Accordin' ta her, there were a couple o' factions inside OZT that were vyin' fer control o' the operation. Graydon Creed was the golden boy up until Mystique shot 'im an' gave Bastion's clique the upper hand. Bad news is that most folks in the OZT camp think Bastion arranged that."

"Mystique would _nevah_ support OZT!" Rogue's green eyes flashed angrily.

"Not on purpose," Logan returned and Rogue's gaze narrowed. "So it was either an unlucky coincidence or Bastion was canny enough ta dupe her inta it."

Rogue sat back with a pensive frown, cradling her injured hand in its sling. "Mah momma's a lot o' things, Logan, but she ain't stupid."

"Never said she was, darlin'." Logan's grim expression didn't waver. "But if Bastion did somehow provoke her inta attackin' Creed, he's a lot more dangerous than anyone's givin' him credit fer."

Scott found himself growing impatient with the exchange. He didn't know Mystique very well and didn't like what little he did know of her. Debating the reasons behind her involvement with OZT did not strike him as being of particular importance at the moment. Whether she had acted knowingly or in ignorance did nothing to change the fact that they now had Bastion to deal with.

"So who's opposing Bastion?" Scott asked. That was the important issue. If mutants could find some kind of ally in the political arena, it would be a significant step towards regaining their powers without violence.

Logan snorted. "Don't get too excited, Cyke. Senator Kelly's taken up Creed's banner."

"Kelly?" Scott felt a wash of dismay. Robert Kelly was one of mutantkind's most uncompromising opponents. He was the man who had invented the Sentinels, and a strong political voice in the anti-mutant camp.

"Why would Kelly go against Bastion?" Bobby crossed his arms, his expression surprisingly intent. "I'd think they'd be best buds right about now."

"No, Robert." Ororo shook her head. "Kelly may hate mutants, but our destruction is not his ultimate goal." She pursed her lips as if her thoughts were coalescing even as she began to voice them. "Operation: Zero Tolerance is a springboard into the Presidency. _That_ is his goal."

Logan nodded in agreement. "Right. He's takin' the moderate position an' portrayin' Bastion as a dangerous radical that don't care if he kills his friends as long as he gets his enemies." He paused. "From what I've been hearin', that ain't too far from the truth."

Scott picked up immediately on the things that were left unspoken. "What do you mean?"

Logan shrugged. "Creed's original plan was ta use the satellites ta neutralize mutants so they could be rounded up, categorized, marked an' released. Most of 'em, anyway. Our names were on a list o' folks who needed ta die resistin' the new order, but most mutants would've been tossed back out inta society."

"Valerie told you that?" Scott didn't know which was worse. The plan itself or the idea that Valerie might have known about it and not seen fit to warn them. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bishop pale, making the black M tattooed across his face stand out in sharp relief.

"No, she don't have a clue 'bout that part," Logan answered. "I got that from an' old contact o' mine."

Storm's expression slid from distressed to angry. "Such marking of mutants would be the first step toward creating a second class of citizen." Her pupils narrowed, catlike. "A legal slave race."

Her words struck Bishop more forcibly than if she had turned around and slapped him. The giant man reared to his feet, his face twisted with horror. "I warned you!" His gaze swept across them, both accusing and guilty. "But you wouldn't listen! This is the beginning of the war that destroyed the X-Men and created my world!"

Storm reached up to place a hand on his arm but he shook her off. "I am _not_ overreacting," he told her flatly. "And I am not paranoid." He continued to stare at Storm for a moment before turning to Scott. "You cannot possibly look at the events taking place all around us and _not_ realize where these things will lead. If we do not somehow stop Bastion you are all going to die, and this entire way of life--" He made a sweeping gesture that took in the larger world outside the mansion, "is going to die with you!"

Scott couldn't break away from the other man's gaze. There was a kind of horrible certainty in his eyes that compelled attention. For Bishop, he realized suddenly, the events occurring all around them were not a frightening present. They were a fixed past, the heart-rending destruction of his world that he was being forced to experience firsthand. The realization made Bishop's horror entirely too understandable and for the first time Scott found himself feeling sympathy for the time lost man.

"We're not going to let that happen, Bishop," Scott told the other man with such certainty that he almost surprised himself. But to Scott, the things that Bishop described from his own time were inconceivable. He simply could not believe that the Professor's dream could fail that horribly. On some level he understood that it was true in Bishop's future. That it was fact. But for him, it could never be more than a _possible_ future. A future the X-Men would somehow find a way to avoid.

Storm once again laid her hand on Bishop's arm. This time he didn't pull away. Scott turned to Logan.

"Is that what Bastion is doing?" He watched Logan closely in the hope that his expression would give away some hint that the news was going to get better, not worse.

Logan drew a breath that he let out in a rush, and Scott's heart sank. "No. Unless they've got special programmin', the Prime Sentinels have kill on sight instructions."

"What?"

"That's insane!"

"We have heard nothing like that!"

The general clamor of surprise and outrage died out after a moment as the X-Men waited for Logan to expand his statement.

The tense silence shattered as Cerebro chimed, indicating an incoming call. Frowning, Scott checked the display, noting that it was an audio signal only and from an unrecognized number. He glanced over at Logan who shook his head lightly.

Still reeling internally, Scott accepted the call. "Who is this?" he demanded of the faceless caller.

The voice that came back to him, amplified by the room's sound system, was colored with surprise. "I could ask you the same thing. LeBeau put me on hold. Is he there?"

_On hold? Gambit?_ The sudden intrusion was like a dash of ice water. Scott's thoughts switched tracks without registering the magnitude of the jump.

_What in the world is Gambit doing using the mansion's tactical communication lines for personal business?_ Scott felt a burst of anger at the Cajun's typical recklessness.

"No, he's not here," he snapped. "What is this about?"

"Sorry. Privileged information."

Scott was about to open his mouth for a heated retort when the door to the War Room slid open on an argument in progress. Heads turned that direction, as startled by the sudden change as Scott.

"All I'm sayin' is call y' people! Dey tell y' exactly de same t'ing." Gambit and Angel stood in the doorway, glaring at each other while Beast watched them warily from behind.

Angel brushed past Gambit and walked into the room, his stride stiff both from anger and the weight of his wings. "My security staff would have called me if there was a problem."

Gambit gave him a disgusted look. "No dey won'. Dey gon' try t' handle it demselves. Dey won' call y' until it's too late."

"Remy, is that you?" Belatedly, Scott realized that he still had the unknown caller on the open line.

Remy glanced over at Scott, apparently unsurprised by the new voice. "Oui. Y' got a camera on y' phone, Dyson?"

Scott absently filed the name away as Dyson answered. "Yes."

"Turn it on."

Dyson did, apparently, and the large projection screen filled with the image of a man in his mid-thirties, with short sandy-blonde hair and a matching goatee. He wore small round glasses with gold rims and he struck Scott with his air of competence. Dyson looked the X-Men over with interest, but quickly centered on Gambit.

Gambit smiled grimly without ever looking directly at the screen and motioned toward Warren. "Dyson, meet Warren Worthington III. Warren, dis is Dyson. He's de one watchin' dese folks dat're goin' after y' company."

Scott was beginning to get an inkling of what the argument about, but it seemed ludicrous to think that Gambit was meddling in an apparent takeover attempt on Worthington Industries. Somewhere, he was certain, there must be something he'd missed that would make sense of Gambit's involvement, but for the moment all he could think was that this was horrible timing for a personal crisis in light of what Logan had been telling them.

As Scott sorted through his thoughts, Dyson's professional air solidified. He nodded to Warren in terse greeting and was met with a flat stare.

"Mr. Worthington, here's the short version," Dyson began, his words clipped and efficient. "An unidentified person or group is making a hostile raid on Worthington Industries' corporate accounts and other holdings. I estimate it will take them another six to eight minutes to break through the security protocols and begin siphoning off the liquid assets." He paused as if to let the import of his words sink in. "Your security people don't stand a chance of stopping them. I can't stop them either. But if you'll give me access to your core, I may be able to play a variation of the shell game with those accounts and keep these people from getting to them."

Warren crossed his arms, his expression a mix of anger, concern and disbelief. "Why should I believe you?" Two steps away, Gambit rolled his eyes.

Dyson, however, was unperturbed. "I represent my client's interests to the best of my abilities," he answered with a nod in Gambit's direction. "In this case, my client has asked me to intervene on your behalf. I don't know the reasons why, nor do I care. You'll have to ask him, but that will take precious time that, to be honest, you really don't have."

Dyson's gaze flicked to Gambit and Scott wasn't sure if he should be pleased, angry or downright mortified that the Cajun X-Man was the 'client' Dyson was referring to.

"Five minutes," Dyson added succinctly.

In response, Logan rose to his feet. He speared Gambit with a single unrevealing glance before turning to Angel.

"Give 'im whatever he needs, Worthington, an' cut him loose. We've got bigger problems ta deal with right now." The scratchy growl of his voice brooked no argument.

Angel's gaze narrowed as he considered, while on the large screen, Dyson's expression furrowed as if he were chasing a stray thought.

"Do I know you?" he asked Logan.

Logan glanced up at the screen, annoyed. "Doubt it," he growled.

Dyson continued to stare at him for a moment, and then something clicked in his mind. His face lit with a small "Ah," of recognition. "That's who you are. The golden boy of Landau, Luckman and Lake. I knew you looked familiar."

Logan's expression went from annoyed to dangerous in a heartbeat. Scott had to throttle the desire to break in and demand an explanation from one of them.

"What d' you know about Landau, Luckman and Lake?" Logan demanded.

Dyson shrugged. "I've done some contracts for them. Interdimensional finance is fun work, if you can get it." The blond man didn't smile but Scott was fairly certain he was making a joke.

Without pausing, Dyson looked back to Angel. "Four minutes."

Warren turned to stare at Gambit for a bare moment, then walked over and picked up a handset and spoke with someone on the other end. Scott didn't try to listen in, or to follow the complex business-speak. Instead, he found himself staring at Gambit as well, trying to figure out what he should be seeing. Hank's comments from the day before kept floating through his mind, but he just couldn't quite put it all together.

Angel finished his conversation and put the handset back down in the receiver when Dyson began to nod. "Thank you, Mr. Worthington." Then he turned his attention to something in front of him. "I'll see what I can do." He glanced up momentarily. "Remy, I'll call you."

Gambit nodded. "M' personal line."

"Right."

Logan reached over and hit the disconnect switch in front of Scott.

"Wait!" Warren reached instinctively toward Logan, but the older man held out a hand.

"Forget it, Warren. I won't pretend ta know where Gumbo dug that guy up, but he's a professional. He'll take care o' yer company if anyone can, an' like I said, ya've got bigger problems ta worry about right now."

Like a switch being thrown, Scott's mind snapped back to the earlier conversation. His feeling of apprehension returned in full. "What kind of problems, Wolverine?"

Logan cocked his head. "That was the second thing I was gonna tell ya. OZT's got a bead on the X-Men. This thing with Worthington Industries just confirms it." He turned to Gambit as if a thought had suddenly occurred to him. "Did they get ta Xavier's estate, too?"

Gambit nodded. "Drained."

Scott's alarm at the fact that Gambit seemed to know an inordinate amount about the financial status of the X-Men was immediately drowned out by a new realization.

"Then OZT is on its way here." The conclusion was liberating in a way. Here, at least, was a threat Scott knew how to deal with. "How long?"

Logan shrugged. "Eighty minutes, give or take. They launched the team from Langley."

Scott had never been in the espionage business, but he'd been a soldier long enough to know that that meant C.I.A assassins, most likely. And for once that was a frightening prospect. Without their powers, he wasn't certain they had the skills to match a team with that kind of training and weaponry. However, he needed more information before he could make any kind of rational decision.

"How many?" he asked Logan. For example, a standard four man team, even of elite assassins, would be simple to repel with the resources they had.

Logan's eyebrows twitched in the equivalent of a shrug. "Don't know fer sure. Twenty, twenty-five would be my guess."

Scott chewed on his lip. That was a full blown assault team, then, which meant covert ops in addition to assassins. The X-Men weren't going to get any slack from Bastion. These were likely to be the best the U.S. government could field.

"Now will you agree that we must evacuate the mansion?" Bishop remained standing, his arms crossed and the muscles in his chest flexing rhythmically in response to his emotions.

"The mansion is well equipped to defend us," Storm interjected. "And we are not helpless simply because we have lost our powers."

Logan shook his head. "We'd be sittin' ducks fer whatever Bastion wants ta throw at us."

"We've faced worse odds before and won, Logan." Warren stepped up beside Storm.

"Yes, we have." Jean climbed slowly to her feet. "But what would we be defending if we stayed here? A house and a bunch of equipment?" She swept her gaze around the room. "Or our reputations? If Bastion knows that this is the home of the X-Men, I don't think he'll stop until he has what he wants, which is-- "

"Our collective heads on a platter, I presume," Beast interrupted with a frown. "However, if that were his intention, I would expect him to dispatch Sentinels to deal with us, not mere men."

There was a momentary silence as the X-Men considered his statement. Scott wasn't certain he agreed with Hank's logic, though he didn't have an immediate counter argument. The truth was that he was just plain leery of being trapped in the mansion while trying to fight off a vastly larger enemy. It was a tactical blunder of the worst kind.

"Ah hate ta burst ya bubble, Hank," Rogue's slow drawl brought Scott out of his thoughts. "But Bastion's sendin' an _infiltration_ force f' good reason. He obviously knows we got security here, an' his supply o' Sentinels is limited. 'Least right now it is." She shrugged. "The Sentinels won't show up 'til our defenses are neutralized."

Her analysis earned her a round of surprised looks. Even Scott was startled, though he'd known Rogue long enough to realize she knew a thing or two about tactics. In years past he had seriously considered training her for team command, but her interest in such things had dwindled radically since that time and he'd never gotten around to suggesting it.

"If we abandon the mansion, we will be turning its contents over to Bastion." Joseph looked acutely uncomfortable as the X-Men focused on him, but he forged onward. "There are things here that you have been unwilling to show me because of my past, and I am a mutant. I would think you would want Bastion to see them even less."

That started a round of discussion that Scott cut off with a wave. "Sorry, folks. We don't have time for this." He glanced at Logan as he organized his thoughts. "We _are _going to have to evacuate. Bastion has too many resources for us to be able to win a decisive victory and we can't afford to get pinned down here." He shook his head. "We're going to have to stay mobile if we want to be able to take on Zero Tolerance on _our _terms."

He paused a moment to survey their expressions. They seemed to agree with him, or at least were willing to abide by his decision. "However," he continued, "Joseph's point is extremely valid. We can't let the Shi'ar technology or Cerebro fall into Bastion's hands." _And we simply don't have time to move any of it. If we don't get out now, we may not get another chance._

Scott leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. "So, right now what I need from all of you is a list of everything we have to destroy to keep Bastion from gaining an advantage by invading the mansion." He ticked one point off on his fingers. "Cerebro is obviously at the top of the list, and it already has a self-destruct mechanism. We can take the data with us. Jean--" He turned to his wife. "When was the last backup made?"

She frowned. "First of the month."

Scott nodded. "So we'll lose a couple weeks worth of data, but that can't be helped." He turned back to the group. "What's next?"

"The nuclear reactor that powers our systems is primarily a Shi'ar device." Hank tapped his claws lightly against the arm of his chair.

Scott blinked at him, surprised despite himself. That hadn't even crossed his mind, and it made for some unpleasant possibilities.

"How long to shut it down?"

Hank gave him a worried frown. "At least forty-five minutes. Probably an hour."

Scott's pulse quickened. That was pretty close to their deadline. "Then you'd better get started," he told Hank with a good deal more composure than he felt.

"So what's to keep Bastion from firing the reactor back up if he gets to it?" Bobby asked as Hank rose from his seat.

Hank shook his head. "We'll have to find a way to destroy the control systems and the reactor chamber. Otherwise, I will be forced to create an internal meltdown, which will leak a fair amount of radiation."

Gambit flashed a grin that seemed out of place in the grim atmosphere. "Don' do dat, Hank. If y' need t' blow de systems, I c'n help dere." A single playing card turned lazily through his fingers.

Scott threw him a sharp look. "This is hardly the time for jokes, Gambit."

The other man returned his gaze evenly, his smile unwavering. "Who's jokin'?"

Scott stared at him, debating how hard to push. They didn't have time for a contest of wills, and they certainly didn't have time for any of Gambit's foolishness.

"What did ya have in mind, Cajun?" Logan asked before Scott could decide how to respond.

Gambit shrugged. "C-4. We gon' need most of it f' de house, but dere's a little extra."

Scott's thoughts jerked to a halt as his words sank in, but Rogue beat him to a response.

"Whoa, sugah. Ya want ta blow up the mansion?" She had both hands on her hips, her expression openly disbelieving.

"Y' got a better way t' hide de fact dat we blowin' up all de stuff _underneath_ de mansion?" he shot back. Scott was forced to admit he had a point. A set of underground explosions wasn't going to do anything but alert Bastion to the fact that there was something hidden there, and the debris from the house would effectively hide any evidence of an underground complex.

Gambit shrugged lightly, his expression giving nothing away. "De first time I saw dis house, it was flat. Can' see as it's a big t'ing, chere."

"So where'd ya get the plastique, Gumbo?" Logan interjected as the couple stared at each other.

Gambit's expression flickered, then disappeared. "Bought it."

_Bought it?_ Scott echoed silently. _From whom and with what?_

Logan didn't seem to share his curiosity. He simply nodded as if that was sufficient explanation for him.

Storm cocked her head, regarding Gambit with a thoughtful expression. "It seems you have been preparing for this day, Remy." There was a wealth of unspoken questions in her voice.

If possible, Gambit's expression became even more guarded. "Seemed like a good idea, Stormy."

For once, Storm ignored the nickname. Scott took it as an indicator of just how strange their situation had become. He looked up at Hank. "Go, Hank."

Hank nodded and left. Scott turned back to the X-Men. "What else?" He found his gaze lingering on Gambit, curious and apprehensive. The man had been making contingency plans. Not only that, but he'd carried through on those plans to the point of having the means to enact them ready and waiting. It was so completely out of character that Scott wasn't sure what to think. Gambit was the type that didn't make lunch plans because it was too much of a commitment.

"The Blackbirds." Storm's words jerked Scott out of his reflection.

Scott nodded, quickly re-centering his thoughts. "Right. The A bird is still at Muir with Excalibur, and we'll take the B when we leave." They didn't often loan out their Blackbirds, but a small altercation several weeks earlier had left Excalibur without air transportation. He was especially grateful now that they'd decided to give them the airplane, since the British team had been able to use it when they rescued Siryn.

"What about the medlab?" Bobby asked. "It's got a bunch of Shi'ar equipment."

Scott surpressed a groan. "The Legacy research." There was no telling what they would lose with the destruction of Hank's equipment. He looked at Bobby. "Talk to Hank. Find out what he needs to keep and pack it up. He should have backups for all of his electronic files." He glanced briefly at Gambit. "We'll have to borrow a little more of that plastique."

_Where would we be right now without that particular bit of foresight?_ Scott asked himself ruefully. Though they had limited stores of grenades and a few highly combustible liquids available to them, they would have been hard pressed to devise a dependable means of sabotaging their equipment in the time available. Plastique was exactly what they needed if they were going to keep Bastion from gaining anything useful from the mansion.

Bobby nodded and rose to his feet. "I'm on it."

Scott surveyed the X-Men as Bobby retreated. "Anything else?"

He was met with silence and shrugs. No one offered any additions to the list, nor could Scott think of anything that they had missed. After several moments, Scott drew a deep breath.

"All right, duty assignments." He glanced at his watch. "We have approximately seventy minutes left. Bishop, Psylocke, you're on security patrol. I want to know if our visitors decide to show up early."

Bishop nodded sharply and rose. Psylocke fingered the hilt of her katana as she followed him.

Scott went on. "Jean, you've got Cerebro." Jean nodded tersely.

He turned to Sam. "Cannonball, take Joseph with you and start loading the portable weapons and equipment onto the Blackbird. Storm, you and Rogue have Blackbird prep."

The two women shared glances. Ororo nodded. Scott turned to the other side of the table.

"Angel, go with Jean. Before she shuts Cerebro down, we need to send a message to Muir Island letting them know that we're abandoning the mansion. I'll leave it to you to work out the security measures. Logan and Gambit-- " Scott suppressed a sigh. "You two get to wire the house. Coordinate with Hank and Jean on the final timing." A final thought occurred to him. "We're going to need to be able to remote detonate from the Blackbird."

Logan nodded. "Shouldn't be a problem."

Scott mentally ran through his plan once more, then, satisfied, pushed himself back from the table. "Then let's get to it, people."


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

As the Blackbird dove out of the hanger, Rogue found herself unconsciously gripping the arm of her seat so hard that it made the fingers of her good hand ache. She forced herself to let go, then opened and closed her hand a couple of times to relieve the tension. The Blackbird seemed to skate across the ocean for just a moment before beginning to rise into the night sky.

She could put no names to the emotions that roiled inside her. In a very short period of time, nearly every single marker by which she measured herself and her life had been stripped away. First were her powers and the physical invulnerability she took so much for granted. Then her home, which would be gone as soon as Logan pressed the button on the small remote he held. And finally, there was the man who sat beside her. A man whom she had, until recently, believed she knew.

She glanced obliquely at Gambit, but he was leaning back against the head rest, eyes closed. His body language was calm, relaxed, and she found herself wanting to kick him just to get a predictable reaction.

Through the headset she wore, Rogue heard Ororo reading off the altitude. Logan was supposed to wait until they'd climbed through two thousand feet before detonating the explosives. He would have to wait for Scott to deactivate the cloaking field because the low-power signal couldn't penetrate it.

"Looks like Rogue was dead-on," Scott said from the cockpit, startling her from her thoughts. "We're picking up four stationary bogeys about six miles out. They look like Sentinels."

Rogue felt a sense of gratification that she'd been right, but that was quickly drowned out by concern. She had no idea what these new Sentinels could do against their Blackbird.

"Two thousand feet," Ororo announced.

"Preparing to de-cloak," Scott answered her. Rogue's stomach tightened.

"Hey, aren't the Sentinels goin' ta see us?" Across the aisle, Cannonball looked nervous. Rogue sympathized. She, too, was used to being invulnerable. It was very hard to sit in that airplane knowing that her survival was entirely dependent on one man's piloting skills. She was used to picking her own risks and managing her own destiny. But without her powers, she was dependent on the technology and on the abilities of the people who best knew how to use it.

"Yes," Scott answered Sam tightly. "So we'll just have to make the window as small as possible. Logan?"

"Ready, Cyke."

The Blackbird rolled into a steep turn and Rogue realized that she could see the mansion and the grounds through the downward windows.

"De-cloaking... now."

Rogue stared out the windows at the ground wheeling below them. There was a horrible pause as Logan's thumb depressed the button on the remote, then the mansion shattered as a ball of fire engulfed it. In the harsh light from the expanding flames, Rogue was startled to see the shadows of tiny human figures outlined against the grass. Her stomach clenched instinctively as the threat to their lives became painfully real.

"Re-cloaking," Scott said.

Then Rogue's view of the explosion disappeared as the Blackbird went into a full-fledged barrel roll. She gripped the arm rest of her seat as her harness bit into her. Rogue counted two complete rolls and most of a third before the Blackbird stabilized its bank angle and began to pull away on a different trajectory from that of their original turn. Rogue understood the maneuver. With any luck, the Sentinels would be looking for them along the flight path they had been tracking when the re-cloaked, allowing them to slip through the cordon without being spotted.

The airplane leveled out and the minutes passed in tense silence until Scott announced that they had passed through the Sentinels with no sign they had been spotted. Rogue breathed a soft sigh of relief that was reflected in the faces around her.

Hank adjusted his glasses, which had slid down his nose under the high g-load. "Now that we've survived the immediate crisis, may I inquire as to where we plan to make our new base of operations?" Like the rest of them, he was wearing a headset that allowed him to communicate both with the cockpit and the other X-Men.

"For now, at least, we're heading for New York," Scott answered him. "It's one of Bastion's 'target' cities, and as good a place to start as any."

"Ya got any ideas where we're gonna park the 'Bird?" Logan asked. He carefully unwrapped the old, bloody bandages that covered his hands where his claws emerged and began rewinding them. "Even with a cloakin' device, it's gonna be hard ta hide."

There was a short pause, which to Rogue meant that Scott had to stop and organize his thoughts. "I'd like to find an abandoned warehouse, though I'll certainly entertain any other suggestions people have. At this point we're pretty much winging it."

"We must assume the city's airspace is being patrolled." Bishop's voice sounded in her ear. Rogue turned in her seat to catch a glimpse of the time-lost mutant. He sat rigidly, rifle across his knees and his face as impassive as his voice.

"Well, if anybody knows a good place to land, I'm listening. Otherwise, we're just going to have to risk a search."

Unwillingly, Rogue's eyes slid sideways. Beside her, Remy was shaking his head ever so slightly, his mouth curled into a small, almost amused smile. He touched the controls that would let him speak over the communication net.

"Cyclops, dere's an abandoned building at de corner o' White an' Bethany." He spieled off a set of grid coordinates with an ease that left Rogue certain that he hadn't just thought of it.

At another time the ensuing pause might have been comic, but when he came back on the headset, Scott's voice was painfully wary. "Is this more of your contingency planning, Gambit?"

Rogue watched as the smile disappeared from Remy's face, leaving something hard in its wake. She felt a twinge of sympathetic pain because she knew Scott's mistrust hurt him, even though she also felt like Scott had a right to his misgivings.

"Oui," Remy answered curtly. "Y' got a problem wit' dat?"

"Only because it isn't like you."

Remy arched one eyebrow. "Dere's where y' wrong, Scott. It's exactly like me." He fingered the mouthpiece support on his headset, his gaze distant. "I may not know too much 'bout runnin' around in spandex savin' de world, but I know a lot 'bout survivin'."

Rogue looked away, her thoughts churning. The echoes in her mind reinforced his words with half-seen memories and vague feelings she could not place. She knew Remy didn't define his life by his membership in the X-Men, but she was too afraid of what she might find in the memories she inherited from him to go looking for what he _did _define his life by. Somewhere deep in the core of her heart, she was terrified she would find herself absent from the list of things he considered most important.

#-#-#-#

"Not bad, Gumbo." Logan stood at the bottom of the Blackbird's ramp, surveying the interior of the building.

At the top of the ramp, Remy forced himself to respond with a grin he most definitely didn't feel. Everything beyond the bottom of the ramp was a complete unknown. The steel, concrete, flooring and other materials that made up the building were all of nearly uniform temperature, turning the world around him into a murky soup. The only things he could see clearly were the Blackbird, because of the still-hot engines and the residual friction heat that warmed the airplane's skin, and the X-Men themselves. From Bobby's description, he knew there was a fair amount of clutter filling up the inside of the abandoned building. He had heard the crunching noises as the Blackbird drove over some of it, as well as Scott's muttered comments about not wanting to start a fire with their jet exhaust.

Remy walked down the ramp and stopped beside Logan. The downside to all of it was that there was simply no way he was going to be able to do anything without giving away his loss of vision. In itself, that didn't bother him too much. The X-Men had just been rather rudely stripped of their false sense of security. He didn't expect anyone– except Rogue, perhaps– to have particular attention to spare for him because of his handicap.

The problem was more the cumulative effect of too many changes, too quickly. In general, the X-Men distrusted him because they thought he was immature and irresponsible– not because they knew he lied to them on a regular basis. The more they saw of the truth, the more that balance would shift. If it shifted far enough, Remy would be forced to sit down and very literally come clean with them or else forfeit his place on the team, and that he did not want to do. It was going to be a very delicate balancing act.

_O' course, y' could tell dem everyt'ing now an' eliminate de problem_, he reminded himself sourly. That was the other option, one that sent chills scrabbling up his spine every time he thought about it. No, there were some parts of the truth he could never tell them, and if he were ever to attempt to win the X-Men's trust based on that kind of exposition, he would have to give them everything.

Remy continued to consider his options as he dug a cigarette out of his duster and lit it. The burning ember was a tiny star of brightness against the muddled background. He studied it with detached interest as he exhaled.

Descending the ramp behind him, Betsy groaned lightly. "I suppose it would be too much to ask to reinstate the no-smoking policy, Gambit?"

"It's a big building, chere," he answered her. "Lots o' ventilation." Most of the front wall was no doubt missing now, since they'd driven the Blackbird through it.

Logan chuckled. "Yer fightin' a losin' battle on that one, Gumbo. They outnumber us."

Remy took another drag on the cigarette. "Mebbe so," he answered. "But I'm payin' de rent."

Standing a short ways away, Scott turned sharply at his words. "Since you brought it up, Remy..."

Remy turned to face the X-Men's team leader, his body language carefully schooled, and waited for Scott to continue.

Scott closed the distance between them with two long strides. "How exactly did you come by this– " he waved a hand, "place?"

Remy deliberately blew his smoke away from Scott as he considered his reply. The last thing he needed right now was to antagonize the man unnecessarily. Then he shrugged. "Ain' a big deal, really. We're deep in gang territory here. I jus' made a deal wit' de gang in question t' lease some o' dere space."

"Lease?"

Remy could imagine Scott's expression and had to suppress a smile. "Oui."

"Isn't that a little risky?" Joseph asked. He was standing by Rogue and Remy had to throttle a sudden burst of jealous anger. Another drawback of his restricted vision was the fact that warm things tended to blend together. He couldn't tell if Joseph was standing a short distance behind Rogue or if she was literally leaning back against him. Chances were, it was completely innocent, but there was always that possibility...

"What if this gang decides to sell us out to Operation: Zero Tolerance?" Joseph continued.

Remy forced himself to concentrate on the question and not let his imagination run away with him when he needed to be calm. He shook his head. "Ain' likely."

"Why not?" Scott's voice was openly questioning.

Remy sighed and ticked the points off for him. "One, dey mutants. Dey ain' gon' tell OZT anyt'ing. Two, dey're bein' well paid t' keep quiet. An' t'ree, I have a... reputation f' bein' a bad person t' double-cross." He gave Scott a thin smile. "It ain' a guarantee, but it's about as close as y' gon' get."

Scott's stance betrayed his reluctance, but he nodded. "All right." He began to turn away as if dismissing the subject in favor of more pressing matters.

Remy hesitated for a moment, but then forced himself to speak. There was no way around it. "Scott."

Scott turned back to him and Remy imagined an expression of suspicion on his face. "What?"

"Dere's... one more t'ing."

Expectant silence answered him and Remy braced himself. "A couple days ago, y' asked me 'bout m' powers an' what I lost when dey went away."

Scott nodded tightly. "I remember. Your kinesthetic sense, which no one knew about." His words were laced with sarcasm.

Remy ignored the verbal jab as he dropped his spent cigarette on the ground and stepped on it. "Oui. But dat ain' de only t'ing."

Scott's sigh spoke volumes. "And?"

"An'... I've also lost most o' m' vision." He tapped his temple lightly. "Red an' black, non?" His words produced a ripple of surprise as he continued, "At de mansion, it didn' much matter, but here–"

"It didn't much matter?" Scott interrupted incredulously. "You're telling me you're blind, but it _didn't much matter_?" He managed to mimic Remy's tone without picking up any of his accent.

Remy bit down on a growl of frustration. This was exactly what he had wanted to avoid. "I am _not _blind." To Scott's right, Rogue's heart rate had gone up which, Remy thought unhappily, probably meant that the over-protective mothering instinct he detested was kicking in.

"I said 'most'." He tried to keep his voice reasonable. "I didn' say 'all'."

Scott crossed his arms, his glare a tangible thing. "Explain."

Remy sighed. "I c'n still see in de infrared, but not'ing in de visual spectrum."

"Really? How fascinating." While Scott was still processing the new information, Hank stepped up beside Remy. "Your eye structure is quite unique. I had been wondering if your vision didn't extend beyond the normal range."

Remy nodded slightly in acknowledgment of Hank's presence, but kept his attention focused on Scott. The other man's heat signature indicated that he was beginning to get truly angry.

"This is so typical, Gambit." Scott's voice was cold. "Everything's a secret with you. Your powers, your past– " He leaned forward, his stance aggressive. "Out of the blue, you pull these stunts–" He waved one hand to indicate their present location. "Several _pounds_ of plastic explosives, this hiding place... " Scott trailed off in apparent exasperation.

"A good t'ief don' ever give away an advantage." Remy told him, his fingers balling involuntarily at his sides. "Y' can' get it back." That was a matter of survival, but in a context he wasn't certain Scott would understand.

Scott made a disgusted sound. "I thought you were an X-Man."

Remy's temper snapped. "I am! An' don' y' dare tell me de X-Men don' keep some parts o' dere lives private!"

"This isn't about privacy, Gambit. It's about concealing important information that could have significant impact on the team." Scott had regained his composure.

"Fine." Remy bit the word out. "Den tell me what Rogue's real name is."

Rogue's exclamation of surprise was clearly audible in the silence. Scott did not respond, and Remy gave him a sardonic smile. "Ain' dat 'important information dat could have significant impact on de team'?"

"That isn't exactly the same thing," Scott responded stiffly.

"Why not? Seems de same t' me." Remy couldn't help the mockery that colored his words. He'd never pushed this argument with Scott because it ran too close to a rather painful truth. Today, however, had become a day to draw some lines.

Scott's heat signature intensified as his temper flared. "Rogue has proven her loyalty to the team--"

"But I haven'." Even though he'd seen it coming, Remy wasn't prepared for how much the words hurt as they left his mouth.

He was answered by a dead silence that said more than any words could have.

"Dat's what I t'ought," Remy said after a moment. It took everything he had to keep his voice steady. He couldn't bear to look at Rogue or Ororo, so he kept his attention focused on Scott. To his credit, perhaps, the other man's anger began to abate. Remy watched as his shifting heat signature settled.

"All right." Scott sounded suddenly very tired. "I can't deny that, but trust doesn't exist in a vacuum, Remy."

Remy noted the use of his given name with a touch of surprise. He understood the message and was oddly gratified that Scott would make the gesture.

"Oui," he agreed softly. "An' I haven' exactly told y' a lot about m'self." Briefly, he wished that he had the opportunity to look Scott in the eye. "But dere never seemed t' be much point since y' had y' mind made up 'bout me since de beginnin'."

Scott was clearly taken aback, though he didn't get angry as Remy half expected him to. He was silent for several long moments, his stance contemplative. Finally, he sighed. "So just what _is_ a 'fully ranked Guild thief'?"

Remy blinked at him, thoroughly startled. "Who tol' y' dat?" In all his years with the X-Men, Scott had never once attached any kind of significance to the word "Guild", until now.

"Logan's words. I'd like to know what they mean."

Remy glanced over to where the Canuck stood, watching them. He couldn't read anything useful from Logan's posture, but that wasn't unusual. It did confirm that Logan knew something about the Guilds, a fact Remy had long suspected.

Unfortunately, the question also put Remy in a very bad spot. It was an uncanny talent Scott had. "Why don' y' ask him?" He did his best to keep the question casual rather than defensive.

Scott stiffened. "I may. But right now, I'm asking you."

Remy's shoulders slumped in resignation as he shook his head. "I can' tell you." He saw the sudden flare of heat that he was sure was reflected in Scott's face, and felt his own composure shatter as he found himself once more trapped between incompatible loyalties. "Dere are _rules_, Scott! I managed t' get out o' one death sentence from de Guilds– I ain' likely t' survive anot'er one!" And, as Guildmaster, he had a responsibility to uphold Guild law that had nothing to do with the threat of punishment.

They stared at each other in angry silence until Logan cleared his throat. "He's tellin' ya the truth, Cyke."

Scott turned sharply to look at Logan. The other man shrugged. "I ain't an expert on the Guilds, but I know that much." He looked toward Remy for a moment. "An' since I ain't a member, I can talk."

Remy couldn't help a small grin. "True 'nough." He was intensely curious himself to hear what Logan might say.

Scott crossed his arms and waited.

Logan spent a moment collecting his thoughts. "In a way, the Guilds 're organized crime the way groups like the Mafia and Yakuza can only dream of." Remy cocked his head at that assessment and knew that Scott was similarly interested.

"What do you mean?" Scott asked.

Logan shrugged. "Guilds 're family-based an' loyal to the death. They're spread across the planet, but never step on any o' their neighbors' toes. An' as far as anyone can tell, they don't have the internal politics that plague other groups. If there 're betrayals and backstabbings, they don't happen in public, an' everybody knows that ya don't mess with Guild because if ya mess with one, yer gonna have ta take on all of 'em." He paused. "T' tell the truth, nobody knows how the thieves make it work."

Remy tried to cover his reaction. Logan's description wasn't exactly correct, but he was close and his words gave Remy some very interesting food for thought.

Scott turned to Remy. "I suppose you aren't at liberty to explain." He sounded annoyed, but that was far better than Remy had expected.

Remy shook his head. "'Fraid not."

Scott stared at him thoughtfully for several moments. "I thought you were banished from your Guild."

Remy winced internally. That was _still_ painful, despite the passage of years. "I was banished from New Orleans," he clarified. "Dat ain' de same t'ing."

"Why not?"

Remy weighed his answer carefully: what he wanted to tell Scott, balanced against what his enemies in the Guild could crucify him for if it was made known. Finally, he sighed and opted for the safer answer. "Bein' Guild ain' somet'ing y' c'n undo. I can' stop bein' a t'ief any more dan you c'n stop bein' a Summers."

"I don't believe that." Scott said. "Everyone has a choice in their actions—"

Remy shook his head emphatically. "_Non._ Dat's not what I meant." This was one of the hardest things about talking to Scott. They so often had completely different concepts attached to the same words.

"Scott, when you use de word 't'ief', what y' mean is somebody dat steals t'ings, non?" Remy asked, and was rewarded with a cautious nod. "Don' matter if dey takin' a pack o' gum from de corner store or a Michelangelo from de Louvre."

Scott crossed his arms. "And your point?"

Remy spent a moment gathering the scattered shreds of his patience. "When I say 't'ief', I mean somebody dat's a member o' de Guilds. Dat one word is like a family name an' a nationality an' a rank all rolled into one. It ain' about stealin' at all."

Scott digested that in silence. "I'm not going to pretend I understand that." He paused. "But I guess I'm going to have to accept it." His tone made it patently obvious that he didn't like the fact.

Remy sighed. "Can' ask f' more dan dat." He wasn't sure what they had accomplished with the conversation. Now Scott and the rest of the team knew there were other factors in his life that he couldn't simply ignore because he was an X-Man, but if anything, the knowledge had made Scott less trusting rather than more. Remy didn't even want to consider what might be going on in Rogue's mind. He knew perfectly well that she saw him as an X-Man and only that. Her vision of the future didn't include the Guild, which was another reason he was so hesitant to introduce her to the truth.

After a few moments, Scott moved away and began giving instructions for unloading the Blackbird and setting up their temporary headquarters. The gathered X-Men slowly dispersed to their various tasks. Rogue turned away without comment. Remy sadly watched her go as he lit another cigarette.

Logan waited until everyone else was gone before stepping up beside him. "You an' me need ta talk," he said without preamble.

Remy kept his gaze on Rogue. "What about?"

Logan flexed the fingers of one hand, examined his bandages. "'Bout how much help the X-Men are gonna be able ta count on from the Guild."

Remy abandoned his thoughts of Rogue and turned to Logan. "'Scuse me?" he asked guardedly.

Logan growled deep in his throat. "I ain't Scott, Gumbo. The Guilds have a vested interest in seein' the end o' Zero Tolerance an' we're gonna need information if we're gonna stand a chance o' takin' 'em down."

Remy acknowledged the rebuke with a small nod. "Oui." He paused. "What particular information did y' have in mind?"

Logan folded his arms over his chest. "Technical data on the satellites, locations and building layouts of OZT's main facilities—"

Remy snorted. "Y' don' want much, do y'?"

Logan growled again, sounding frustrated. "Listen, Gambit. I don't know how the Guilds're organized, an' I can't say where ya are in that organization, but I've worked with a couple o' thieves in the past. When it comes right down to it, the Guilds're the best there is fer this kind o' thing." He turned an invisible stare on Remy. "There're men in the Guild that can get us what we need. Yer just gonna have ta find a way ta talk ta the Guildmaster here in New York or D.C. or wherever ya have ta go, an' convince 'em."

Remy arched an eyebrow. Logan knew more about the Guilds than he'd suspected, though, luckily, not too much. It was obvious that he saw Remy as an ordinary thief and did not suspect more. For Remy, it was something of a relief to finally have at least that much out on the table. He would be able to deal with Logan on a more professional level now, but still without much risk of exposing his real role in the Guild.

"De Guild don' do pro bono work. What y' askin' for gon' be expensive."

Logan's stare didn't change. "Like I said, it's in the Guild's best interests. Yer Guild leaders ought ta be able ta see that." He shrugged. "But if it comes down ta price, I can probably work somethin' out with Landau, Luckman and Lake."

"Scott's gon' throw a tizzy."

"Let 'im. Eventually he'll calm down an' realize it's the best option we've got."

Remy stared at Logan and tried not to laugh at the absurdity of the situation he was being put in. From Logan's standpoint, it made sense. Use Remy to make official contact with the Guild and establish some kind of working relationship with the Guild leaders to exchange information in return for the X-Men destroying OZT and its fledgling police state. In truth, it was exactly what Remy was hoping to convince the New York Guild to do, but Logan's involvement would make it more complicated. On the up side, though, Logan would also add some legitimacy in Scott's eyes, so as long as he could keep Logan from discovering the Guildmaster's identity, it just might work.

Remy found himself nodding as his thoughts coalesced. "I'll see what I c'n do."


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

With Bobby's help, Remy spent some time mapping the area immediately around the Blackbird in his head. Though his spatial sense was no longer functioning, his brain retained the long-practiced ability to calculate precise geometric relationships. As they walked Remy kept one hand on the young thief's shoulder, listening as Bobby described the dimensions of each obstruction they passed. They often stopped to let Remy explore with his fingers, letting his sense of touch fill in what his eyes could not, and in the end he had a sketchy but workable three dimensional mental diagram of the building.

Once he was certain he could walk more than a couple of feet without running into something, Remy went in search of Rogue. He found her on the far side of the Blackbird with Jean. The two women sat together, their heads nearly touching as they bent over whatever they were working on. From their conversation, he guessed it was the mini-Cerebro, but that was purely a guess.

He stood behind them for a moment, unnoticed, then deliberately scuffed his foot across the floor. Both women started at the sound, their heads snapping up in surprise.

"Remy! You startled us." Jean placed one hand over her heart.

"Sorry, chere. I ain' used t' bein' able t' sneak up on y'." He grinned to take the sting out of his words.

Jean shook her head, seemingly unperturbed. Beside her, Rogue had turned back to their project and was ignoring Remy with determination.

After a moment, Jean stood and Remy wondered what expression might be on her face. Her voice was both sad and wry. "I'm not even going to try to come up with an excuse. I'm just going to go away and let you two talk." She stepped away from Rogue.

"T'anks, Jean," Remy told her retreating figure. He stood where he was for a while, watching Rogue, uncertain how to proceed. She continued with what she was doing and could have seemed completely wrapped up in the task were it not for the telltale flush of anger in her form and the rapid pounding of her heart.

Finally, he worked his way cautiously around to where Jean had been and took a seat next to Rogue.

She froze. "Go away, Gambit," she grated without looking up. "Ah don't want ta talk to ya."

"Why not?" He tried to keep his voice gentle.

"Because it's been a bad day already an' ah ain't in a mood ta fight." He could hear the husky note in her voice that meant she was trying not to cry.

Remy sighed softly and leaned his elbows on his knees. A dozen possible responses leapt into his mind and struggled for release, but he bit them back. He wanted so much to try to explain to her, but he knew that there was nothing he could say right now that wouldn't make things worse. He didn't want to fight, either, so all he could do was wait in the hope that his silence would be enough to draw her out.

A few minutes later Rogue paused, as if she had finally run out of the ability to keep her attention focused.

"Ah thought ya were done with the guilds," she said without looking at him, her voice raw with disappointment.

Remy watched her, wishing that he dared touch her. "I gave up stealin' as a career," he explained carefully. "But I can' leave de Guild, Rogue. Y' know dat." And she did. Or, at least, she should. They'd been through it before, every time family and duty had drawn Remy back to New Orleans, but still she tried to believe that the Thieves Guild would someday release its hold on him.

"Right." The single syllable was mocking.

Remy felt a familiar flash of anger. "Back up, girl," he warned her. "Y' got no idea how de Guild operates."

Rogue looked up at him. "Ya right about that, sugah." The words were thick with sarcasm. "Ah guess it ain't any o' mah business, right? Just like ya goin' back ta stealin' ain't any o' mah business. Just like ya _vision_ ain't any o' mah business. Just like ya _wife _ain't any o' mah business—"

"Ex-wife," Remy interrupted her, feeling cold. Did she still resent him for that?

Rogue stared at him, silenced. He had the distinct feeling he'd caught her off guard.

"Ex-wife?" she repeated cautiously.

He nodded as her heat signature shifted subtly. "An' ya didn't think it was important enough ta mention?" The cold bite of sarcasm was back in her voice.

Remy struggled to keep hold of his temper. "Y' were gone when it was finalized, chere." He couldn't help the vague accusation in his tone. She was the one who'd run away rather than sort out the truth. "An' contrary t' popular belief, I don' spend much time t'inkin' 'bout Belle."

Rogue stiffened, and Remy berated himself for taking a cheap shot. He sighed tiredly. "Lot o' t'ings happened since den." _Includin' me nearly gettin' m'self killed_. "It was over an' done an… I forgot 'bout it."

Rogue wrapped her good arm around her sling as if seeking comfort. "Ah sure wish ah believed ya, sugah."

Remy's gut knotted. "But y' don'."

"No." She refused to look at him. Then she stood. "Ah'm not stupid, Remy. Ah know that who ah think ya are an' who ya really are ain't the same person."

Remy rose beside her, startled. His heart began pounding in a mixture of horrible anticipation and a kind of painful hope that she might have begun to understand. Her next words dashed his fragile hope.

"Ah'm tired o' being in love with a shell, Remy." She shook her head sharply, words ragged with the threat of tears. "Ah told mahself ah wouldn't make any ultimatums, but ah just can't do this any more." She drew herself up to her full height, her posture stiff and brittle. Remy wanted to grab her and shake her to keep her from saying anything else.

"So either ya start tellin' me the truth about some things or—" Her voice cracked.

"Or what?" he demanded harshly as hurt and anger threatened to choke him. "Y' gon' stop lovin' me? Jus' turn y' heart off like it was a light switch?"

"_No!_"

Remy reached out and captured her face in his hands, ignoring her startled flinch as he pulled her close. "Rogue, listen to me." He felt a keen stab of regret that he couldn't look into her emerald eyes. "I. Love. You." He punctuated each word with a tiny shake and heard her gasp. They weren't words he had used very often. "But I _can' _tell y' what y' wan' t' hear."

"Why not?"

Remy closed his eyes, not certain he knew how to explain. "Because dey jus' _words_, chere." He looked back at her. "Words ain' enough t' make y' understand." _Words can' talk t' y' heart, chere, o' open y' eyes o' change y' mind._

Rogue pulled away. "Words work pretty well foh the rest a the world."

"I ain' de rest o' de world." There were some things about his life-- his past-- that words simply could not encompass. Reduced to words, those things would condemn him and he cared too much now to let it all be stripped away.

She crossed her arms. "Y' ain't all that different, sugah. At least it would be a start."

He shook his head slowly. "Would do more damage dan good."

She threw up her hand in a gesture of frustration. "How? Would it really be any worse than _this_?"

"Probably," he answered with a snort, but forbore mentioning the primary example. The less she thought about Seattle, the better.

Rogue stared at him. "Fine, ya won't talk, but ah meant what ah said. Ah can't keep goin' on like this. Somehow, ya've got ta find a way ta tell me or show me or-- "

"Dat gon' be a two-way street, chere?" He tried to suppress the caustic bite to the words and failed.

"What?"

At her defensive rejoinder, Remy turned so that they faced each other directly once again. "Y' gon' tell me about y' past, too, miss junior terrorist? O' am I de only one?"

Rogue inhaled sharply. Her heart rate jumped, but she said nothing.

Remy watched her, his anger souring. _Round an' round we go. I'll tell y', but only if y' tell me first._ He sighed. "Do y' know why I won' tell y' 'bout m'self, Rogue?" he asked.

Her response was scathing. "If ah _knew_ that, don't ya think ah would've done somethin' about it?"

Remy clamped his jaw shut on his instinctive response. When he was fairly sure he had control of his reaction, he nodded. "Oui, chere, if y' could."

The unexpected agreement made her pause. "If?" Suspicion replaced anger in her voice. "What's that supposed ta mean?"

"What do y' t'ink it means?" he snapped in return. "Don' y' t'ink I _realize_ I ain' exactly what y' had in mind?" He took a step closer to her, knowing that she would interpret the move as physical aggression, but wanting it anyway. Wanting her. "I ain' Prince Charmin' on a white horse."

Rogue stiffened, though whether from fear or anger Remy couldn't tell. "Ah'm not askin' ya ta pretend ta be somebody ya ain't!" She leaned ever so slightly toward him, her posture softening. "Ah just want ta know who ya are."

"Even if y' don' like what y' find?" he asked softly, all too aware of her nearness.

Remy could sense the change as fear overrode attraction. Rogue shifted away and raised her chin. "Ah can handle it, sugah."

_As well as y' c'n handle bein' less dan half a foot away from me?_ he queried her silently, hurt by the tacit rejection. "If dat were true, y'd already know everyt'ing y' wanted t'."

He regretted it the moment he said it and Rogue's heat signature flared. "Ah didn' say ah wanted ta _live_ it! Ya got a lot o' gall thinkin' ah want all ya garbage floatin' around in mah head, Remy! Ah don't." She turned away. "Ah hate it."

Remy felt the familiar wash of guilt and fought it. _Was a stupid mistake, but it was de first time she'd ever reached f' me..._ He shook his head, banishing the thought, but the regret lingered.

"Havin' me in y' head? Is dat what y' hate?" he asked bitterly.

Rogue glanced at him over her shoulder. "Can ya blame me, sugah?"

Remy barked a short, painful laugh. _Objectively?... No_. "I got bad news f' ya, chere. Dose t'ings are a part o' me. Dey ain' gon go away."

"Ah know that."

"Den why do y' get mad at me every time y' hear somet'ing y' don' like?"

Rogue spun to face him. "Ah do not--!" She cut the retort off and took a deep breath. "Look, Remy, ah'd be lyin' if ah said ah was thrilled with ya past, but it ain't somethin' that can be changed. Ah accept that. But ya past has this bad habit of becomin' part of the present an' no, ah don't like it." She paused, regrouping. "The whole point of becomin' an X-Man is ta leave all the bad stuff behind, sugah." Her voice held a note of appeal.

Remy shook his head, frustrated. "Dis is where we started dis argument. I _can't_ jus' leave everyt'ing like y' wan' me to."

Her tone hardened. "Ya could try."

Remy's gaze narrowed. "An if I don' want to?" he challenged.

Rogue's mouth closed with a snap. He could only imagine her expression as she stared at him and he gave her a sardonic smile. "See, chere?"

He waited a moment more to see if she would say anything. Then, disgusted with the stalemate, he turned away.

#-#-#-#

Scott watched Remy walk away from the Blackbird with a guilty stab. He was opposed to eavesdropping, but he hadn't been able to block out the words and now he found his thoughts turning in disturbing circles.

Gambit had called Rogue a terrorist, a label that bothered him. It shouldn't, he realized. It was true. But he still didn't like acknowledging that Rogue had spent her years with Mystique learning exactly that. The fact didn't fit well with the image of the headstrong, somewhat naive young woman he knew.

_Well, she's an ex-terrorist, anyway_, he amended. Across the cleared area surrounding the Blackbird, Logan met his eye with a shrug for the familiar antics of the volatile couple.

_We seem to have a lot of ex's in the X-Men_, Scott thought sourly, his gaze lingering on Logan. _Ex-spy._ He looked back towards Gambit's retreating figure. _Ex-thief._ He turned slowly until he'd located Psylocke. _Ex-assassin._

He shook his head briefly, dismayed at himself. _They're not exactly the wholesome team of heroes I keep trying to convince myself I'm leading_. Maybe he was the one who was naive to think that these men and women would simply abandon their past lives once they joined the X-Men. They had certainly brought some parts of those lives with them, namely their fighting skills and their mutant powers... and their enemies. Perhaps he shouldn't be so resistant to the idea that they brought a lot of other things with them, too.

He shook his head. _But the whole purpose of the Dream is to give them a different kind of life to lead, and to get rid of the need for all of those 'other' things_.

His thoughts were interrupted as Bishop stepped into the building, his rifle trained on the three unfamiliar men who walked in a loose formation in front of him. The man in front was definitely a mutant, with red skin and yellow cat's eyes that scanned the area with keen interest. Scott felt a burst of anger. What was Bishop doing? The Blackbird sat uncloaked and clearly visible in the middle of the impromptu hangar.

The other two men appeared to be human, and all three were dressed in a ragged mixture of leather and canvas that labeled them as gang members more clearly than if they had signs plastered on their foreheads. Scott felt a second wave of consternation when he realized that Bishop was herding their visitors toward Gambit rather than himself.

_Just because he's made himself the banker for this little operation, doesn't mean he's in charge_, Scott thought darkly as he angled across the building toward Gambit. He arrived a moment before Bishop, pinning the giant man with a stare that he hoped conveyed his disapproval.

Bishop's reaction was somewhat disconcerting. He nodded to Scott in respectful acknowledgment, but then turned immediately toward Gambit, his demeanor unchanged. The underlying mixture of anger and disgust that had always highlighted his interactions with Gambit was gone, replaced by a kind of resolved acceptance.

Gambit seemed to notice the difference as well. He studied Bishop for a moment before turning his attention to the three men.

_He certainly doesn't act blind,_ Scott thought. He could clearly see Gambit sizing each of them up and promised himself a chat with Hank to find out just what kind of vision the Cajun now had.

"Who's the bull dog?" the lead man asked, jerking his head toward Bishop. To Scott he appeared intimidated, but was doing a credible job of covering it.

Gambit flashed a grin as Bishop's eyes narrowed. "Nobody t' worry 'bout." Scott was vaguely pleased by the smooth evasion. At least Gambit wasn't giving out their identities.

Gambit's smile disappeared. "Y' people in place?" he asked the mutant.

Bishop's finger tightened on the trigger as the man dipped one hand into his pocket. He fished out a small black box that he tossed toward Gambit. The Cajun mutant snagged it, a tad clumsily in Scott's eyes, though he didn't think anyone not familiar with Gambit would notice.

"If anybody comes around, y'll get a page," the man said. Scott frowned thoughtfully. It was a crude warning system, but might just be useful if these "people" were stationed outside of the Blackbird's sensor range. He wondered if Gambit had taken the Blackbird into account, since this agreement had obviously been worked out in advance.

Gambit nodded, fingering the pager. The red-skinned man cocked his head. "So let's talk payment."

Scott listened to the ensuing conversation about bank routing numbers with little comprehension. He had always dismissed the Hollywood portrayals of criminals doing their business in cryptic but very cool-sounding slang as being nothing more than a device to make otherwise reprehensible characters seem attractive. He was more than a little surprised to discover how strangely close to the truth Hollywood was.

The conversation ended abruptly and Bishop ushered his charges away. Scott could only guess that Bishop had been able to follow the discussion and knew they were finished because he had seen nothing from Gambit that he might interpret as a dismissal. It was very strange to watch the perfect coordination between the two X-Men. In fact, given their past track record, it was downright eerie.

Scott waited until Bishop had disappeared outside the building before turning to Gambit. "Care to explain what all that was about?" He couldn't keep his aggravation with the entire situation and Gambit's weird behavior out of his voice.

Gambit's gaze flickered toward Scott as the familiar poker face slipped into place. In the same flat tone he used whenever he was required to give Scott a report, he explained, "De man's name is Pitt. He's de leader of a gang called Ravage." He turned the pager over in his hand once more and then offered it to Scott. "He'll keep a roamin' patrol around de building, twenty-four hours a day, f' as long as he's paid to."

Scott pushed aside all of the disconcerting questions that he knew Gambit wouldn't answer and concentrated on business. "How wide is the net?"

"Between one an' two miles radius."

Scott swallowed a snort. _In power-save mode, the Blackbird's passive sensors reach just over a mile_. The Shi'ar equivalent of batteries were pretty impressive, but most of the aircraft's sensing equipment required so much power it could only operate off the engines, which they couldn't leave running all the time. The Blackbird's fuel efficiency was downright astounding compared to Earth technology, but all they had was the one tank. Their refining equipment had been destroyed with the mansion, and the only other set had been installed at Muir Island way back when. They couldn't afford to waste a drop of the precious liquid.

Scott crossed his arms and regarded Gambit for a long moment while he sorted his thoughts. "So, do you have anything else hidden up your sleeves or is this it?"

Gambit's response was a wolfish grin that did nothing to reassure the X-Men's field leader. "Maybe." He shrugged lightly, as if acknowledging that the answer wasn't sufficient. "Wolverine asked me t' run an errand, so we'll see."

Scott's suspicions sharpened. "What kind of errand?"

Another shrug, this one reserved. "Guild business. Ask Logan if y' wan' details."

Scott bit back an instinctive desire to demand an explanation anyway. It wouldn't do any good. He could see the brick wall behind Gambit's eyes and knew from experience that all he would get for his trouble was a load of frustration and a tension headache.

"Fine," he agreed shortly. "Just let me know before you leave." He would have to go have a talk with Logan. He was getting very tired of being in the dark.

#-#-#-#

Remy forced himself not to run through the twisting tunnels of the Guild complex as he made his way toward the Great Hall. For one, even with Bobby beside him, he probably couldn't navigate the rocky passages at that speed without hurting himself, and two, he needed to project calm confidence which required deliberation, not speed.

With every step, he cursed his own lack of foresight. He should have realized the warning Chess had been trying to give him, but he had mistaken the man's concern as being for Remy himself rather than for the Guild. Unfortunately, he hadn't yet truly begun to think of himself as Guildmaster. It hadn't occurred to him that the Guild would react so strongly to anything and everything that happened to him. Instead of arriving to find mild concern for his whereabouts in the wake of the mansion's destruction, he had found the Guild in panicked disarray, believing that their Guildmaster was either dead or captured by OZT.

The sentries they'd passed on their way into the complex had nearly come unglued at Remy's appearance, though, to their credit, they'd scanned both thieves very carefully for Sentinel components before allowing them to pass. From them Remy had gotten a fair picture of what was happening with the Guild. It didn't surprise him that opinions were divided, with some wanting to remain in New York until a real threat materialized and some wanting to scatter to the other American Guilds now, before the Sentinels could find the underground complex.

They turned the final corner. Remy was relieved to see that the doors to the Great Hall remained closed. He could hear the muted rumble of many hundreds of voices through the walls, and allowed his pace to slow a notch. The critical thing had been to get there before someone made the decision to scatter. The other Guilds were primarily located in Bastion's target cities. Those who managed to survive the trip would find no more safety there than in New York.

Remy paused with his hands on the heavy brass handles of the double doors and took a deep, steadying breath. He was shaken by the fact that he'd misjudged so badly. Not so much because he'd been wrong, but because his mistake could easily have cost many of these people their lives. Remy had watched innocents die because of his mistakes before. He did not ever want to repeat the experience.

Slowly, he straightened, unconsciously adjusting his grip on the door handles.

"Knock 'em dead, boss," Bobby said from behind him, his voice full of confidence.

Remy was startled into a grin and he pushed the doors open with a renewed sense of determination. They were not too late. This mistake, at least, could be put right.

The doors swung ponderously open, grinding into the stops with a resounding boom that echoed in the giant cavern. Remy ignored it as he strode into the room, down the main aisle that led to the center ring. The overwhelming din quieted for a moment in surprise as people craned to see who had arrived, but quickly swelled to its original volume and beyond. People who had been standing in the aisle gave way, stepping aside to create a pathway toward the center of the room. Each of them seemed intent on greeting Remy personally and enthusiastically as he passed. Dozens of people reached out to touch the Guildmaster as if wanting to verify that he was solid and real, and Remy had to suppress the sudden desire to bat the invading hands away. He had always spent his time in the shadows, avoiding notice. He didn't know how to react to celebrity.

It was a relief to step into the center ring, away from the press of people. With Bobby behind him, Remy took a moment to acknowledge each of the council members, but ignored their questions. For now they were going to get the same explanation as the rest.

Turning, Remy stepped up to the microphone. He looked around at the indistinct mass of warmth that was the crowd and waited for the room to quiet. Although he really didn't have any experience with public speaking, he found that he had a fair idea of what to say. He grinned. _Been listenin' t' de Professor long enough dat I've picked up a feel f' it._ But that didn't keep his stomach from fluttering in nervous anticipation.

He was almost ready to begin when a disturbance near the front caught his attention. He watched in bemusement as the disturbance resolved itself into a small, familiar silhouette that pushed determinedly through the crowd. Once free of the press, she ducked into the ring and rushed forward to throw herself into Bobby's arms, sobbing in relief.

Remy was unable to contain his smile as he watched Bobby comfort his wife with kisses. He felt a pang of guilt for having caused Diedre so much distress, even unintentionally, but it was almost worthwhile just to see the reunion. Remy's reaction was echoed by the crowd, and he had to wait a short while longer for the laughter to die away. Bobby would probably never know how much Remy envied him in that, he decided as he turned back to the microphone.

Remy chose his words to the Guild carefully. He couldn't tell them about the X-Men, but he needed to reassure them that there was no immediate danger to the Guild from Bastion and OZT. As a result, he ended up giving only a sketchy account of what had happened at the mansion. He instead focused on the Guild itself, relying heavily on his natural charisma to draw the crowd in and renew their confidence in themselves and the organization that had been created to protect them.

Remy was unprepared for the emotional feedback his short speech generated. As a group, the New York Guild had complete faith in him, which was entirely new in Remy's experience. They were more than willing to believe in him and to trust because he asked them to. After so many years of being rejected by the Guilds, the total acceptance was exhilarating in a way Remy had never experienced. It stripped away his defenses and swept him up into an intense emotional high as the Guild responded to his words.

Remy was trembling in reaction as he dismissed the gathered crowd back to their homes within the complex. The applause rang in his ears, the sound immensely gratifying. He stepped away from the center of the ring, taking several deep breaths to compose himself.

"Well said," Chess commented as the crowd began to disperse. Remy flashed him a weak grin.

"T'anks." Despite his somewhat wobbly knees, he drew himself up as the other council members gathered around them and tried to concentrate.

Chess leaned back in his wheelchair. "I'm certain the Guild will feel better knowing that you will be here from now on."

Remy was taken aback by the pointed comment and knew that Chess could read his expression all too easily. Then he shook his head. "Non. I still can' do dat, but I will be here _more _often, neh?"

Chess's reaction was one of dismay. "After what just happened here, Guildmaster, I'm surprised to hear you say that."

Remy raised an eyebrow. The other man's tone was just shy of openly disapproving. Remy studied him intently. He knew that Chess didn't like his choice in living arrangements, but he had never criticized. It made Remy realize just how strongly the ex-Guildmaster felt about the matter.

Remy was all too aware of Adrian watching the conversation, his body language nonchalant, but his interest obvious. Remy kept his sigh to himself. Adrian would be quick to take advantage of any schism between the new Guildmaster and his most ardent supporter on the Coucil.

Remy organized his thoughts quickly. He needed to reassure Chess without telling him any specifics about the X-Men. Perhaps in private, but not in front of men like Adrian.

"Dere are some t'ings I c'n do t' protect de Guild dat I have t' do out dere." Remy nodded toward the doors to indicate the larger world outside the complex. "I know it ain' traditional f' de Guildmaster t' work outside normal channels, but in dis case de Guild is gon' have t' accept it."

"And the Guild should simply accept the risk so that the Guildmaster can continue his lifestyle uninterrupted?" Adrian's words oozed a kind of menacing civility.

Remy froze, but managed to recover before giving away his feelings. Anger swept through him at the insinuation, though he knew it was nothing more than the man's typical maneuvering. He forced his voice to remain light and unconcerned as he replied, "If y' were gon' call someone t' task on dat, it should've been y' cousin."

Adrian's heat image flared brightly. "Don't throw Michael in my face! He made his own choices."

Remy suppressed his smile. _Y' ain' half de enemy Michael was, Adrian. He wouldn' have let me manipulate him like dis._

"Oui, but, as family, who else had more responsibility t' challenge him?"

Adrian stared at him, his mounting fury evident in the flickering of his heat signature. "It was most appropriate for another Master to make that challenge," he finally grated.

Remy inclined his head fractionally, having achieved the concession he wanted, and turned back to Chess. "I can' deny dat dere's a risk t' de Guild." The near-disaster they'd just averted was testament enough to that. "But de return is well worth de risk."

"What return?" Tom O'Shane asked.

Remy met his invisible gaze. "De end of OZT, an' de destruction o' dere satellites," he replied reasonably.

Disbelieving silence answered him and he smiled, wondering what Logan would think of how he was going about his errand. "Dis is a matter f' de Council, neh?" He made an inviting gesture. "So if y' gentlemen would like t' adjourn t' chambers..."


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17 

Scott stepped outside of the warehouse that had so recently been converted into the X-Men's operations center, his gaze sweeping the area in search of a familiar figure. He walked most of the perimeter of the building before he found Bishop, perched on the highest platform of a fire escape that clung to the side of the building. The time-lost X-Man stood facing out across the city, his stance vigilant.

Since the Blackbird's sensors continued to report the area as clean, Scott went ahead and called the other man down. This wasn't a conversation he wanted to have up on Bishop's self-assigned watch post.

Bishop climbed down then leapt the last few feet from the bottom of the fire escape, landing in front of Scott with remarkably little noise for such a big man. He straightened and regarded Scott with familiar stoicism, but Scott thought he saw a flicker of uncertainty in the other man's eyes.

_He knows what he did_, Scott thought, relieved. That fact would make the conversation a lot easier. However, as commander, he still needed to make the point.

He pinned Bishop with a disapproving stare. "In the future, I expect that all arrangements affecting the safety of this team will be brought directly to me. Is that clear?" he asked. He was still baffled by Bishop's behavior earlier that afternoon. Bishop was a good soldier, but he had completely disregarded the chain of command to bring their visiting gang representatives to Gambit, a man Scott had _thought_ Bishop detested.

Bishop stiffened. "Yes, sir." His gaze was focused straight ahead and did not meet Scott's, giving the senior X-Man little insight into what he might be thinking or feeling.

Scott crossed his arms, consciously forcing himself to adopt a casual stance. "Do you want to tell me what you were thinking this afternoon, Bishop?" he asked as gently as he could.

Bishop's stance faltered. His gaze darted to Scott's face, then away. "I... am not certain that I can." An expression that might have been pain crossed his face and disappeared.

Scott was puzzled. He had the feeling that this one incident had broken the scabs on a far deeper, more painful subject, but he didn't have the faintest idea what that might be. He sighed internally. He didn't know the what, but he could guess the who.

"This is somehow about Gambit, right?"

Bishop nodded reluctantly.

Scott waited, wondering what might be going on behind Bishop's calm mask. He knew Bishop had some kind of close connection with Gambit in the future he came from, but he had never gotten a good feel for what kind of relationship it had been. On the day they'd met, Bishop had accused Gambit of being both a traitor and murderer, but there were also a number of instances where he had stepped up to defend Gambit when someone made a disparaging remark. Jean's only input was to label it a classic love-hate relationship, at least on Bishop's side. Scott had the feeling Remy didn't know what to make of Bishop's attachment to him, any more than the rest of them.

Bishop seemed to collect himself as he turned to face Scott directly. His expression was somber. "I have always wondered how a man like Gambit could have become the man I knew-- the Witness."

Scott's interest was immediately piqued, though he tried to keep his expression neutral. "What do you mean?"

Bishop's gaze grew distant. "The Witness raised my sister and I after our grandmother died. He was a... hard man." He darted a glance toward Scott. "Not cruel, just--" A small shrug betrayed his frustration. He took a deep breath, and then the words poured out in a minor torrent. "The Witness spoke six different languages fluently. His company, Stark Fujikawa, had legitimate fronts in eight countries and illegal operations in more than twenty, all of which he personally controlled in some form. He had blackmail material on just about every public figure you could name. He manipulated elections within the United States, arranged coups in other countries--" Bishop made a sharp gesture. "Even used assassination, if that's what it took to accomplish his goals. In some ways, he was one of the most powerful men on the planet." His dark eyes bored into Scott's, filled with conflict. "To be honest, I have never been able to see that man in Gambit. Not... until today."

Scott was taken aback, both by the flood of information and by the image Bishop presented. "And today?" he prompted, dreading the answer.

Bishop's face regained its composed mask. "Today I saw the Witness staring back at me from Gambit's eyes," he said quietly. "And I reacted as if that was who he was." He blinked, regret and shame reflecting momentarily from his gaze. "I will not let it happen again."

Scott managed a nod, his mind whirling with disturbing thoughts. He wasn't sure he believed Bishop's assessment, but on top of the many other disquieting things that had happened in the last few days, particularly those involving Gambit, he found himself unable to completely dismiss them.

#-#-#-#

Though Bobby returned within a couple of hours, it took Gambit a full twenty-four hours to come home and by the time he reappeared Rogue had half-convinced herself to go looking for him, Sentinels or no Sentinels. Her relief at seeing him again was almost painfully intense and was followed by an equal flash of anger.

'_Least the man could've done is tell me what he was up tah_, she groused as she trotted across the warehouse toward him. It rankled that it was _Scott_ who had informed the rest of them that Remy had left to try to work out some kind of agreement with the Thieves Guild. Remy didn't tell Scott _anything_, but now even he seemed to know more about where Gambit was and what he did than Rogue.

She was among the last to gather at the folding table that had been set up beside the Blackbird. The table served as their planning center, and held the mini-cerebro as well as an interface to the Blackbird's on board systems. One end of the table was clear, and as she arrived Remy was already pulling a sheaf of papers from a familiar satchel at his side and laying them out on the tabletop. He tossed a document tube down on top of the pile then shrugged out of his coat, running his fingers wearily through his hair.

_He looks o.k.,_ Rogue thought, watching him. _Tired_. She didn't see any indication that he might have gotten hurt, though, and the hard knot in her stomach loosened a notch.

Remy gave no indication that he'd noticed her presence. Instead, he nodded in Logan's direction, his attention split between Wolverine and Cyclops. "Guild's willin' t' deal."

Logan raised an eyebrow as Scott picked up the document tube. "Is that what this is?" Scott asked.

Remy frowned, but nodded. "Pretty much."

Logan flipped through the stack of papers for a moment then looked up at Remy in surprise. "These're technical briefs on the Prime Sentinels." His gaze narrowed suspiciously. "What's the deal, Gumbo? Even Guild couldn't turn this around so fast."

"Non." Remy raised a hand to massage his temple briefly. "De Guild's been puttin' together information on de Sentinels f' it's own protection." He let his hand fall and looked over at Logan. "I jus' convinced dem t' share."

Logan's expression didn't change. "What're the terms?"

"No terms." Remy held out a hand to Scott, who handed him the document tube after a moment's consideration. "Dis is a nods 'n whispers t'ing only."

"A what?" Scott asked. Rogue had heard the term before, from her mother who had always used it to refer to missions where deniability was the most important issue. She was surprised to hear it coming from Remy, considering the political connotations.

Oblivious to her thoughts, Remy answered the question while he opened one end of the tube. "It means dat de Guild is willin' t' extend _some_ protection an' provide information t' de X-Men t' bring OZT down." He slid a set of schematics from the casing and began spreading them out on the table. "Y' c'n ask de Guild f' what y' need, an' y' get whatever dey willin' t' provide. But if anyt'ing goes sour, de Guild's gon' evaporate an' y' be on y' own."

"That sounds a little flimsy," Scott said.

Remy glanced at him. "It's better dan what y' got now. De Guild don' know dey dealin' wit' de X-Men."

Scott digested that for a moment, then turned his attention to the schematics. "What are these?" From Rogue's vantage, they looked like a set of drawings from the city planner's office.

Remy looked down at the curling pages, his gaze empty. Rogue was struck by how obvious it suddenly was that he couldn't see what was there. "Dere's a Guild safehouse we c'n use. It's got decent livin' quarters an' it's in a residential area, which makes f' better camoflage." He tapped the top drawing. "Dese _should_ be enough t' map a route from here t' dere t'rough de storm sewers. We've got access right outside de buildin' here an' in de basement on de ot'er end. From what I've been told, de Sentinels' sensor range is only a couple o' feet while dey're human. Stayin' underground should be enough t' keep us from bein' noticed."

Scott spread the drawings out on the table, studying them. "What's the safehouse like?" he asked without looking up.

Remy shrugged lightly. "Gon' be a little cramped, but its solid. I went by t' check it out before comin' here."

Rogue glanced over at him in sudden concern. He was out wandering the city alone? Was he insane?

No one else seemed to share her feelings, however. Ororo turned to Remy with a pensive frown. "We will put innocent lives at risk by living in a residential area."

Remy cocked his head. "Mebbe, chere, but we can' stay here." He gestured with one hand, taking in the confines of the building. "Dis was jus' a bolt hole-- an' a good place t' ditch de 'Bird."

Scott looked up from the schematics. "That's a valid point. This building doesn't even have running water, and we can't live off the Blackbird's systems for very long." He scanned the gathered X-Men. "However, I can't say I like the idea of using the residents of the city as camouflage."

Logan crossed his arms. "We don't have much choice unless we want ta leave New York. Anyplace we find that's livable is gonna have people around."

Scott's brow furrowed. He chewed on his lip as he thought. Rogue didn't envy him the decision. Their current living conditions were pretty primitive, with the exception of the Blackbird's medlab. The situation was especially bad for Jean because she really needed more than emergency rations and the Blackbird's limited store of recycled water to keep both herself and the baby healthy. But if they went into the city, even to forage, they faced the risk of being discovered by OZT.

Finally, Scott's expression cleared. "I want to take a look at this safe house and get a feel for the area before deciding anything. Gambit --" Gambit raised an eyebrow as Scott tapped the schematics spread out before him. "You get to play tour guide. We can find out how good these drawings are while we're at it."

Looking somewhat surprised, Gambit nodded and Rogue's gut tightened, but she bit her lip rather than voice the fears that clamored inside her.

#-#-#-#

"All right." Scott clamped the end of the small flashlight between his teeth, mumbling his words as he peered at the schematics in his hands. "There should be a ladder about four feet in front of you, right side."

He looked up, the beam from the flashlight spearing into the darkness that filled the sewer. The light swept across Gambit, and Scott watched as the other man moved along the wall, fingers trailing lightly across the rough surface until they lit on the steel bars bolted to the cement.

In the course of their damp, difficult trek through the underground tunnels, Scott had gained an appreciation for how Gambit was managing his handicap. Originally, the Cajun had driven him to angry distraction with a near-constant stream of questions about the dimensions of the tunnels, but eventually he'd begun to notice that Gambit was using the information rather than just pestering him with it. If Scott told him that the ceiling dipped a certain distance ahead, Gambit would duck at exactly that point, following the description Scott had given him. He'd found it a little unnerving until it occurred to him that the other's experience with a "spatial" power might very well allow him to do exactly that. What continued to bother him, however, was the ease with which Gambit moved in what he claimed was utter darkness, save for the heat of their own bodies.

_He's done this kind of thing before_, Scott thought for about the hundredth time since they started out. _He's obviously been trained to do it._ Scott didn't think there was any way Gambit could do what he was now unless he'd had a lot of practice. _So who trained him? This Thieves Guild?_ That thought didn't sit too well with Scott. He was singularly unimpressed by the various organized crime factions he'd run across in his time. They were selfish, undisciplined and universally destructive. Logan's description notwithstanding, he doubted Gambit's thieves were much better. The fact that Gambit himself behaved like an overgrown punk only lent credence to his conclusions.

Unfortunately, for the last few days Gambit had been acting like anything but. Scott couldn't remember a time he'd ever seen the other man behave in such a responsible and level-headed manner. The only time that even came close was when they'd first met. Gambit had deliberately allowed himself to be hit by some shrapnel in order to use the metal sliver as a lockpick. Thinking back, Scott was surprised to recall how impressed he'd been by that. In fact, he'd originally categorized Gambit as an unpredictable and dangerous operative of much the same caliber as Logan, but that impression had quickly been shattered by his juvenile behavior on later missions.

_Is that the sleight-of-hand Hank was referring to?_ he wondered suddenly. _Has Gambit been deceiving us for the entire time he's been with the X-Men?_ The thought was frightening. _But surely the Professor would have known. He would never deep scan Gambit without his permission, but he kept surface contact with all of us. Gambit couldn't have hidden the truth from him. Not for four years._

Only partially reassured, Scott dismissed his suspicions for the moment. He moved forward to where Gambit was carefully climbing the ladder into a long pipe that lead toward the surface. Scott followed him, pausing when the other held out one hand.

"Hang on, Cyke. We've reached de security grid."

Scott looked up at him. "Do we have a problem?"

The light from the flashlight didn't quite illuminate Gambit's grin, but Scott could hear it in his voice. "Non. Here."

Out of the dimness, he handed Scott something that looked like a pocket calculator. "What's this?"

Gambit shifted slightly on the ladder rungs. Scott caught a metallic glint as he opened the cover on a small keypad attached to the wall. "A code generator. De system has a randomly generated password dat change every day."

Scott raised an eyebrow as he glanced down at the little calculator in his palm. He hadn't been expecting a decent security system. Mulling his thoughts privately, he followed Gambit's instructions to call up the day's password and they proceeded upward into the basement of a building.

Scott was still climbing out of the pipe when Gambit straightened and walked confidently toward the stairs. He paused with his foot on the bottom one to wait.

_He knows the building_, Scott observed as he carefully closed the trap door they'd come through. _He said he came by here earlier today. So did he walk through it and learn the dimensions today or was he already familiar with it?_ They climbed the stairs, emerging on a very normal-looking kitchen. _He'd never been inside the building where we're storing the Blackbird, obviously, so chances are at least fair that he's never been here before, either._ It hadn't taken very long for Gambit to learn his way around the hangar, though.

Scott paused, turning a full circle as he studied the kitchen. _That's a lot of memorization for one day._ He glanced involuntarily at Gambit who lounged in the doorway that led to the rest of the house, idly shuffling a deck of cards. _A lot._ He made a mental note to ask Jean if she'd ever seen any sign Gambit had a photographic memory. At the moment, he couldn't find any other answer to fit what he was seeing. However, if _that _was true, then there was no way Gambit could be as ignorant as he appeared.

Frustrated by his train of though, Scott pushed it aside and concentrated on the safe house. He was glad to note that the house appeared to be furnished, since everything they had had been lost with the mansion. The kitchen let onto a combination living/dining area, and he immediately understood why Gambit had referred to the house as "cramped". It was going to be hard to fit everyone into the same room at once.

Gambit seemed to sense his thoughts and flashed him a familiar, irritating grin. "On de bright side, dere are five bedrooms." He nodded toward the staircase that lined one wall. "Three upstairs an' two down here."

Scott ignored the comment and proceeded to make a thorough examination of the house and the small yard behind it. But except for the security system, which covered the yard and the roof in addition to the windows and doors, the squat brownstone was utterly normal. The neighborhood was almost too picturesque, with two neat rows of houses lining the empty street. In the distance, he could hear children playing, their laughter seeming out of place in the midst of what was, to him, a reconnaissance mission.

He returned to the living room to find Gambit lying on the couch, ankles crossed and eyes closed. He appeared for all the world to be asleep. Scott felt a burst of real anger.

"Gambit!" he snapped.

"What?" The other man did not so much as crack an eyelid, though he sounded alert enough.

Scott stepped very firmly on his temper. "You could at least _pretend_ you're on a mission here." Oddly enough, he had discovered sarcasm worked much better on the Cajun than any kind of honest disapproval, though he rarely found a way to use it.

Gambit opened his eyes and Scott silently congratulated himself on a small victory. "Mission? An' here I t'ought it was a house," he quipped and Scott's gaze narrowed.

Abruptly, Gambit sat up and swung his legs off the couch. He ran the fingers of both hands through his long hair, then looked up at Scott. "Don' y' t'ink y' takin' dis a bit too serious?" He gestured at the house around them. "I mean, de whole idea is dat nobody's gon' come lookin' f' us here. De security's armed-- " He paused. "An' I've been up f' de last thirty-six hours workin' de deal, so lighten up, all right?"

Scott was taken aback by the weary anger in the other man's eyes. _Thirty-six hours?_ But that made sense if Gambit had been busy the entire time he'd been gone. He frowned ruefully as his thoughts turned. _For once he's dragging for a legitimate reason, so I guess I should be a little more sympathetic._

He sighed softly. "I've seen everything I need to. There's no reason you can't get some sleep once we get back to the hangar."

Gambit cocked an eyebrow, his expression reflecting traces of surprise. He stood without comment, though, and followed Scott back toward the basement stairs and the underground route that would take them back to the X-Men.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18 

Bobby crept up the basement stairs, cautious of his feet. The warped wooden steps creaked at the slightest excuse and only his thief's training allowed him to move up them in silence. Two steps below the top, he paused. A brief flicker in the light shining under the kitchen door indicated movement-- someone was awake. Bobby cursed his luck. It struck him as extremely ironic that Remy now came and went openly on his trips to the Guild complex while Bobby was forced to sneak in and out, but he was well aware of how little they could afford to let the X-Men learn the truth. Even Bobby wasn't completely certain of Scott's reaction. He wanted to believe that older man would understand, that he would agree with the necessity of protecting the Guild, that he would _approve _of the life Bobby had chosen... but Bobby doubted it. And that doubt was more than enough reason to keep the truth hidden.

Sighing silently, Bobby weighed his options. He could stay in the basement, waiting for whoever was in the kitchen at three a.m. to leave, or he could go on in and admit to having snuck out for the night. He could concoct an excuse easily enough. The scent of Diedre's perfume clung to him, filling his thoughts with remembered passion. Too often he didn't have time to stop to see her when he was working, but tonight he'd made time while Remy was embroiled in yet another Council session. As far as he knew, Remy was still there, arguing risks with the more conservative among the Guild leaders. Bobby doubted he'd accomplish anything.

He glanced up at the door_. If I don't get to bed, I'm not going to get another chance to sleep until the night after tomorrow._ The very thought was painful, but the X-Men's first mission against OZT was scheduled for tomorrow night, which meant that he would be on the go for at least another forty-eight hours if he didn't get some sleep now.

_Oh, for the good ol' days_, he thought with a smile. _I had no idea how easy I had it._ That was before he'd started training to be a thief and had his schedule rearranged permanently by a certain Cajun taskmaster who made Scott look like a slugabed.

Squaring his shoulders, Bobby took a deep breath in preparation, then carefully changed his posture to mimic the exaggerated furtiveness of a college kid sneaking back into the dorm. Thus prepared, he opened the door into the kitchen, crept through, turned and did a credible double take at the sight of the woman who sat at the kitchen table.

Rogue raised her eyebrows at his sudden appearance. "Bobby! Do ya know what time it is?" She cocked her head, expression evaluating. "Where'd you come from, sugah?"

"Uh..." Bobby scuffled one foot, keeping his gaze on the floor. "Diedre's." He darted a glance at Rogue. "Just don't tell Scott... Please?" He stared at her hopefully. The appeal was real enough. The last thing he needed was trouble with Scott.

For a moment, he thought she was going to scold him, but then she sighed and waved the request away, her expression reflecting pain and regret before disappearing altogether. "F'get it, sugah. Ya takin' a pretty big risk, but ah guess ah can't blame ya." A sickly smile crossed her face. "We're all idiots when it comes ta the heart."

Sudden concern chased away Bobby's desire to go find his bed. He walked over to the small kitchenette and took a seat beside Rogue. "Did something happen?" As far as he knew, she and Remy had pretty much been ignoring each other since the X-Men had moved into the house. He hadn't had a chance to talk to Remy about it, but had gotten the impression it was just more of the same old argument.

Rogue shook her head and looked away. "Nah." He saw the muscle in her jaw knot for a moment as she clenched her teeth. "Ah'm just sittin' here in the middle o' the night, wonderin' where he is... wonderin' if he's all right." Her gaze darted to him and then away again. "Wonderin' when he'll run out o' reasons foh comin' home."

Bobby couldn't quite suppress his snort. "Remy'd cut off his own fingers before he'd leave you, Rogue."

She turned to look at him in surprise and he saw the hope flare in her eyes. "Ya think so?"

Bobby decided to take a chance. He reached over to grip her bare hand. "I know so." After all, Remy had been willing to sacrifice his life for a love that wasn't his own. How much more would he give up for the single greatest desire of his heart?

Rogue continued to stare at him for a moment, searching his face as if looking for reasons to believe, but then her expression hardened. She extracted her hand from his grip and leaned back in her chair. She crossed her arms, fingers drumming against her biceps as she stared at him.

"So what am ah supposed ta be lookin' foh?" she asked abruptly. Bobby blinked at her mercurial shift in mood as she went on, "That night at dinner, ya told me ta watch Remy, watch everything he did, so ah could figure him out." She shrugged, the motion painfully sharp. "He's made it clear enough he ain't gonna _tell_ me anything, so--" She pressed her lips together in a thin line, fighting emotions that Bobby couldn't read, but could guess.

He sighed. That was a dangerous question to try to answer, as much as he wanted to. But maybe he could still help. "Well... why don't we talk about dinner, then," he suggested. It was a safe place to start, anyway. Rogue gave him an odd look, but he pressed on. "What did you see that night?"

Her expression grew thoughtful and she fiddled with the small bandage that still covered the burn on her palm. Eventually, she looked up at him. "Did ya know that meal cost about eight thousand dollars, sugah?"

Bobby nodded. The restaurant was one of Remy's favorites.

She watched him for a moment longer before lowering her gaze to the tabletop. "Ah asked him if he'd stolen somethin' ta pay foh dinner."

Curious, Bobby arched an eyebrow. Remy hadn't mentioned this particular conversation. "What did he say?"

A tiny smile lit her features. "He laughed." She shook her head lightly. "Ah felt so stupid askin'..."

Bobby gave her a moment to indulge the memory. Then, "Do you know where the money came from?" he asked.

Her brow crinkled as she shrugged. "Ah guess it was Remy's... from somethin' he stole back before he joined the X-Men."

Bobby smiled. "Pretty much. It all comes out of his investments now."

"Investments?"

"You know. Stocks, bonds, real estate..."

"_Real estate?_" Her expression was almost comically puzzled.

Bobby chucked lightly and ticked them off on his fingers. "A penthouse here in New York, a house in New Orleans, a house in Paris, a couple of office towers in Hong Kong--" He quit as Rogue's eyes widened. "You had no idea, did you?"

She shook her head. "Ya ain't pullin' mah leg, are ya?"

"Nope." His smile faded. "Here's the real question, though: _Why_ don't you know anything about his investments?"

She shrugged uncomfortably. "He nevah told me."

"Why didn't you ask?"

Rogue's brow dipped as she moistened her lips. "Ah didn't realize there was anythin' ta ask about. He doesn't exactly live like a millionaire."

Bobby gave her a skeptical smile. "He had a custom Ferrari shipped here from France."

Rogue stared at him. Her normally green eyes had gone nearly gray in reflection of the troubled thoughts that were so obvious on her face. "Ah--"

Bobby waited quietly.

"Ah don't know," she finally admitted. "Ah just... nevah thought about it."

"Why not? Weren't you curious?" That alone was probably the biggest reason Bobby had learned so much of what he had.

Rogue's eyes narrowed as she thought. "Ah guess." She looked down at her hands. "But ah figured it was all... dishonest money... an' ah didn't want ta know the details." She glanced briefly at Bobby before returning her gaze to her lap.

Bobby watched her as he sorted his thoughts. Instinct told him he'd stumbled on something important, though he couldn't pinpoint why. He debated where to go next, without inspiration.

"So is that what ah'm supposed ta figure out?" Rogue asked after a while, her gaze once again fixed on him. "That he's rich?"

Bobby smiled ruefully. "No. It's a place to start though. Do you have any idea what he does with all that money?"

"Obviously, he's been buyin' office buildings with it," she returned, her voice thick with sarcasm. Then she sat bolt upright, her gaze fastened on something distant. "But he said he was stealin' because he needed the money ta help mutants." The words came out as a protest.

"Huh?" Bobby was lost.

Rogue glanced at him, her expression hooded. "Ah caught Remy an' another thief stealin' from a buildin' downtown. He said the money was ta help mutants." Her lips thinned. "He implied it was a kind o' mutant underground... but not the Professor's."

Rogue's expression darkened with anger. "But if he's got that kind o' money, what in the world would he need ta be stealin' anything foh?"

_Uh oh_, Bobby thought and raised a hand to ward her off. "Hang on, Rogue."

"What?" she demanded.

He kept his voice mild with an effort of will. "Remy told you the truth. He can't use his own money because there would be too much risk of a government agency tracking the... underground down through him."

Rogue stared narrowly at him, but he could see her anger diminish by degrees. "Ya seem ta know an awful lot about it," she commented after a bit.

Bobby scrambled for a response that wouldn't give away any more than he already had. "Remy tells me things."

Rogue's expression soured. "A lot more than he tells me, sugah."

Bobby pushed himself to his feet, his exhaustion returning. "Maybe it just depends on how you ask."

Rogue looked up at him thoughtfully, but said nothing as Bobby left the room and headed for bed.

#-#-#-#

Scott paused in the doorway to the kitchen to gather his thoughts. He considered it a stroke of good fortune that he'd managed to find Gambit alone in the crowded house. He wanted a chance to talk to him before finalizing the mission plans. Mentally kicking himself into motion, Scott crossed the kitchen.

"Afternoon," he told Remy with a brief nod, then busied himself rummaging through the cabinets for a glass.

The other man paused in the act of stirring his coffee and glanced over at him. "Is it?" Scott noted that his hair was wet from a recent shower. His demeanor gave Scott the impression he'd just gotten up.

"It's about one thirty." Scott found an unused glass on the top shelf of the cabinet and went to the freezer for ice. Behind him, Remy went through a painstakingly precise process to measure out a second spoonful of honey for his coffee. Scott shook his head. Gambit got picky about the strangest things. This was one of them, and he'd actually seen Remy forego his morning coffee rather than drink it with sugar instead of honey.

Scott watched the process with interest. Every motion was smooth, with not a single drop of the golden liquid spilled. Scott abandoned his own drink preparations as curiosity got the better of him.

"How do you manage to do that without spilling anything?" If his understanding of Gambit's vision was correct, then he was unable to see either the honey or the spoon.

Gambit's face lit with a grin as he dumped the perfect spoonful of honey into his cup and stirred it lazily. "Would y' believe me if I said I was measurin' de weight by feel?"

Scott frowned at the vaguely challenging note in the other's voice. He thought about the process of measuring a liquid into something as small as a spoon, and the tremendous sensitivity that would be required to feel a change of what he estimated to be less than an ounce. He knew for a fact that he couldn't do it and he had his suspicions that even Logan might not be able to. If Gambit was implying that he could...

"No, I wouldn't." Scott crossed his arms and leaned against the counter.

Gambit's grin widened. "Good."

Scott raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Gambit seemed to sense his reaction. His grin faded and his tone became matter-of-fact as he shrugged. "De coffee's hot, so it glows. Makes a nice backdrop to see everyt'ing else against." On the heels of his explanation, he flashed Scott an enigmatic smile, picked up his cup and turned away.

Scott stared after him, thoroughly startled. _I don't believe it. Was he teasing me?_ In his experience, Gambit irritated, angered and openly defied him whenever possible. The idea that he had just been on the receiving end of a gentle ribbing was hard to accept.

"Gambit, wait." Scott shook off his bemusement with an effort.

The other man paused in the doorway and turned. Scott picked up his now ice-filled glass and waved toward the small table. "Have a seat. I wanted to talk to you."

Warily, the other man complied. He settled at the table, lounging in the wooden chair with one elbow hooked over the back. All traces of his earlier behavior were suddenly gone, replaced by the prickling defiance Scott was used to. Scott took advantage of the time it took to pour himself some tea from the pitcher in the refrigerator to gain control of his reaction. It shocked him that he was disappointed by the change. For the last few days it had been, if not exactly pleasant, then at least... refreshing... to work with the Cajun. He was still incredibly irritating, but he'd been on the ball and had done exactly what Scott asked of him, without argument.

_Even if its just an aberration in his behavior_, Scott told himself, _I shouldn't get discouraged. At least now I have some vision for the future._ He stifled a smile as he closed the refrigerator. _Maybe this was what the Professor was always talking about._ The Professor had never been anything but pleased with Gambit's presence on the team, a fact that had continually mystified Scott. _There's obviously a lot of potential there, if I can just find some way of unlocking it._

Thoughts turning, Scott took a seat at the table and met Gambit's flat gaze. He resisted the urge to shake his head in disgust. _Not two minutes ago I would swear this man was at least making an attempt to be friendly. What caused the sudden attitude?_ He thought back through the conversation. _What did I say last...? Just 'I want to talk to you'._ Sudden understanding struck and Scott felt dismay like a physical blow. _Wonderful._ He managed to internalize a long and frustrated sigh. He knew from experience that Gambit was now set to endure a lecture from his field leader, and that the carefully casual exterior would not waver one iota, nor would the hard, empty gaze change until they were finished. The only time Scott had ever managed to break through that shell was the rare occasion when he managed to make the other man so angry that the situation erupted into violence.

_I don't want to do that._ For one, they couldn't afford the chance that the neighbors would notice something strange and call the police on them, and two, he'd been hoping to gain Gambit's cooperation. He knew the other wasn't going to like it, but he had been hoping to settle the issue in some kind of calm, reasonable manner.

_That's going to be completely impossible with Gambit in this mood_. Unfortunately, it was the only chance Scott was going to get before the team briefing. _So what can I possibly do to break through that mask without making things worse?_

Sighing softly, Scott leaned back in his chair. "I'm sorry, Remy. That didn't come out like I intended."

Both eyebrows arched sharply in surprise over the red eyes and Scott felt a stab of triumph. _Gotcha._ He took a sip of tea to cover his response.

"I do want to talk to you, though. About the mission."

Gambit's surprise turned skeptical. "What about it?"

Scott shrugged lightly. He wasn't sure how to broach the topic except to plunge straight in. "As I'm sure you're aware, we've had to pull several X-Men off the active list for various reasons. Jean, of course, because of the baby." He fingered his glass. "And also Hank and Warren because of their mutations. They're just too obvious to be risked."

Gambit nodded. "An' Rogue," he added.

Scott paused for just a moment, but decided not to read anything at all into the statement. "Yes, and Rogue, though I'm planning to include her on tonight's mission. Her hand is still a bit tender, but she's been managing with it just fine during practices." The basement had become their staging ground. Gambit had been in on some of those training sessions when he was around, proving that he could handle the weapons and the scenarios at least within the limited environment of their practice room.

Gambit didn't react to the news except for a brief flicker that Scott couldn't interpret. "An' y' point?" he asked after a moment.

Scott braced himself. "I intend to add you to that list as well."

He watched warily as Gambit's expression closed in on itself. He couldn't tell if the mask hid anger, disappointment, fear, or something else entirely. Gambit didn't move for several long moments, but then he picked up his coffee and took a sip, his solemn, eerie gaze meeting Scott's over the rim of the mug.

"Guess I can' argue wit' dat," he said softly. "Wit' good blueprints an' enough time t' absorb dem, I c'n navigate easy enough, but y' turn it into a combat situation..." He shrugged, his body language betraying a sense of regret. "It could get pretty dicey."

Scott felt an unexpected pang of sympathy that was immediately drowned out by his relief at the other's easy acceptance.

Gambit must have been able to sense his feelings because his expression quirked wryly. "Dat was easier dan y' were expectin', neh?"

"Uh... yes. I guess so." Scott wasn't sure why the question made him uncomfortable, except that it was so completely unlike Gambit. He'd been expecting several rounds of argument, at the very least, and to eventually be forced to pull rank just to gain the other man's grudging cooperation.

His gaze narrowed at a sudden thought. It was a question that he had asked of several of the X-Men about Gambit, but had never felt he could ask the man himself. He cocked his head as he studied him. "Remy, do you deliberately contradict me just for the sake of argument, or do you really disagree with almost everything I do?"

Gambit laughed outright and looked away while he recovered his composure. Scott watched him with interest, tremendously curious to hear his response.

Eventually, Gambit looked back at him and Scott was surprised to realize that he was fighting a smile. "'Bout fifty-fifty," he admitted.

Scott felt a flash of anger, mixed with consternation. "Why?"

The hidden smile escaped, familiar and smug. "'Cause half de time I t'ink y' dead wrong."

Scott stiffened defensively, despite the fact that he knew better. "And the other half?" he demanded.

Gambit's humor faded. His expression turned cold, though Scott would swear he sensed regret in it as well. The Cajun pushed his coffee cup back, making the spoon rattle loudly in the tense silence. "It's been nice talkin' to y', Scott." He stood abruptly and walked out.

Scott stared at the place where he'd been for a long time as he tried to sort his thoughts. Eventually he gave up and forced himself to move. They had a mission to perform. Everything else would have to wait until after that. _Then_ he would find some way to figure out what was really going on inside Remy LeBeau.

#-#-#-#

Remy sat a little ways to the side of the crowded table as the X-Men went through their briefing, idly shuffling a deck of cards. The repetitive motion helped to soothe his frayed nerves while he listened to the discussion. Since he couldn't see any of the schematics laid out on the table and wasn't going to be on the mission anyway, he stayed back, but that didn't keep him from paying close attention to everything that happened.

The plan was simple enough and characteristic of Scott's frontal assault methodology. The target was a small factory they believed was a manufacturing facility for several small Sentinels bio-components. They were hoping to gain some insight into the control and/or transformation technology that, so far, was only sketchily described in the technical briefs the Guild had managed to obtain. The facility was one of several that manufactured the same components, and was expected to have light defenses compared to OZT's primary locations. Scott's plan was to use the maintenance entrance during shift change and from there to make their way to the Director's office, which was targeted as the most likely location for the information they wanted. The route would also give them an opportunity to see the manufacturing line.

Remy didn't like it. He could think of about fourteen different locations inside the building where there was likely to be internal security. He had no idea what form that security might take, from heat sensors to retinal scanners to simple locks on the doors. But no matter what it was, he was certain that the X-Men, with their tactics adapted from long years of full-powers missions, would trip the alarms long before they could afford to.

"Logan." He pitched his voice low and brushed the other man's elbow. Logan turned his head fractionally in acknowledgement. "Y' give any t'ought t' de security inside?"

Logan shrugged. "We're just gonna have ta manage. It's a shame ya can't come along."

Scott paused in the middle of his description and looked over at them. Remy was struck by a sudden desire to see his face. He couldn't begin to fathom what the X-Men's field leader might be thinking about him at this point, which was disconcerting.

"Y'know, it's ironic." Sam's country drawl distracted Remy from his thoughts. "The one time when we really need a thief on the team an' ours ain't available."

Remy turned to look at the younger man in surprise. He liked Sam quite a bit, but it was downright strange to hear something like that from him. Most of the X-Men seemed to have developed a new comfort with the fact that Remy was a professional thief, if a retired one, as they believed. He was too used to being discussed in whispers. This new forthrightness was... unsettling. However, it could be useful as well.

Gathering himself, Remy nodded to Sam. "True, 'nough," he agreed easily. "But jus' because I can' be dere don' mean y' have t' go wit'out an expert."

"What do you mean?" Scott demanded.

Remy clamped down on his instinctive anger at the suspicion in the other man's tone. If anything, their conversation that afternoon had only served to make a bad situation worse. "I know somebody dat could help." Marcus Black would be ideal for the mission.

"A thief?" Logan asked.

Remy nodded. "Good one."

"No," Scott answered immediately. "We're too exposed as it is. I'm not going to risk X-Men's lives on an unknown like that."

_Unknown t' you_, Remy thought angrily, but didn't say it.

"He's got a point, though, Cyke," Logan said. His scratchy voice managed to cut through the murmur of discussion that had enveloped the table. "We're runnin' a risk by not takin' someone along."

"I thought you were going to handle anything that came up." Remy could hear the frustration in Cyclops' voice.

Logan was unfazed. "I ain't expectin' ta find anything I can't handle, but there's always the chance. We haven't tangled with these folks before."

There was a pause before Scott replied, his voice stiff. "Between you and Ororo, I'm confident we can manage."

Remy kept his reaction hidden by force of will. Logan was a skilled operative, but even Weapon X had hired breakers like Remy when they needed real expertise, and Ororo was only apprentice-level and badly out of practice. Between them, they didn't have all that much of the kind of skill they would need. If all it took was ingenuity, Remy would have full confidence in them, but he doubted that would be the case.

"'Ro, what do ya think?" Logan turned to Ororo.

The X-Men's co-leader cocked her head in contemplation. "I would have no problem working with a Guild thief if Remy vouched for him," she nodded in Remy's direction, "but I agree with Logan that we are unlikely to need the help."

Remy arched an eyebrow, somewhat mollified by her vote of confidence, if dismayed by her opinion. She, like Logan, knew something of the Guilds even though her master in Cairo had been exiled from them long before she came into his care. Unfortunately, she had her own portion of conceit when it came to her thieving abilities, but that came from the fact that she had never been introduced to the more advanced types of security. Even Remy, when she had been his de facto apprentice, hadn't taken those steps because of her age at the time, so within her limited experience she was indeed pretty good.

Remy could almost feel the change as Scott's attention shifted from Ororo to himself. He seemed to be watching Remy, waiting to see what argument he would make and ready to counter it.

Frustrated, Remy swallowed his protests. "I can' give y' help y' don' want," he said simply. That didn't mean he wouldn't do anything, but Scott didn't need to see or know of the contingency plans he intended to put in place. He resisted the impulse to look over at Bobby. More than ever he was grateful for the events that had thrown the young man into his life.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Bobby realized something was wrong about a half second too late. The strange construction of the building, the heavy doorframe, the apparent ease with which the X-Men had penetrated the facility's security...

"No!" He jumped toward Wolverine as the other man twisted the handle on the Director's safe. "Don't--" His words were cut off as a heavy metal door sliced down across the entrance to the plush office with a hiss of pneumatics.

"...it's a trap," he concluded softly as the X-Men spun toward the door.

Logan was the first to lower his weapon. He spared Bobby a single unrevealing glance then bent to examine the wireless transmitter affixed to the inside of the safe. At the same time, both Scott and Bishop went to the now-sealed door.

Rogue shook her head, muttering under her breath, and began to prowl the office. "Mah momma would kill me foh makin' such a stupid mistake."

"She ain't gonna get the chance, if we don't get outta here." Logan straightened from his examination of the safe and turned to Scott. "Looks like the safe was rigged with a wireless transmitter. Ain't sure how the guy usin' the office got in an' out without settin' the thing off."

Bobby had a couple of ideas, which he couldn't verify unless he spent some time looking at the safe. _Probably a magnetic print on the key_. Logan had picked the lock, but obviously hadn't disarmed the security measures. And, unfortunately, that meant that OZT now knew someone was breaking into one of their facilities.

Fear tightened Bobby's gut, a fear that he saw reflected on the other X-Men's faces. _We have to get out of here before OZT comes to get us_. As far as they knew, there weren't any Sentinels stationed inside the factory, but all that bought them was a precious few minutes.

A short explosion of gunfire, deafeningly loud in the enclosed space, startled him. Rogue pivoted on her heel, the snub-nosed automatic rifle in her hand swinging to point toward a small grille in the ceiling, which she destroyed in another burst. She repeated the action two more times then lowered her weapon.

"There. That takes care o' the cameras. Anybody got an idea how we're gonna get out o' here?"

Cyclops stepped forward, instantly gaining the team's attention. "Everyone, split up. Just because the door's sealed doesn't mean there isn't a way out. We'll tear our way through the walls if we have to, so let's see what our options are."

The X-Men didn't need any further direction. They paired off as if pre-assigned and began searching for any exit from the room. To their dismay, they discovered their prison had been well engineered. The floors, walls and ceiling were made of heavy steel plates that Bobby doubted anything less than Scott's optic blast would cut through. Air circulated into the room through a set of very small vents, each barely large enough for Storm to fit her fist into once the cover was removed. Electricity for the lights and outlets as well as the computing lines ran through contoured bulges of metal bolted to the steel plates. At some point, Bobby knew, those lines had to punch through the armored cube, but he doubted the access was large enough to be useful.

Bobby made his decision without consciously registering it. There was no way out of that room except through the door. He abandoned his X-Man role in an instant and snapped into what Remy termed "thief mode". Everything came into sharp focus around him as he realized that he knew what to do.

He swung the small backpack he carried off his shoulders and motioned to Logan as he moved to the door. "Wolverine, come here. I need your claws."

His preemptory tone earned him a round of startled looks, but he ignored them as he set the bag with its precious set of thieves tools down at his feet and began rummaging through it for the things he knew he'd need. Logan came over, his expression tense, expectant.

"What are ya thinkin'?"

Bobby didn't look up from his search. In his head he was already counting the passing time and cursing every moment that passed. "Cut me a hole in the wall next to the lock there. I need to get to the control circuitry."

A few steps away, Scott watched them both with an air of suspicion. "Iceman, what are you doing?"

"Getting us out of here." Bobby lit the end of a small acetylene torch as Logan's claws screeched against metal.

"Walls're lined with steel," Logan reminded him. Blood welled from the punctures in the backs of his hands.

Bobby nodded. "Yep. Just peel off the paneling so I don't set fire to the place cutting through."

To his relief, Logan did what he asked, without comment. Scott's gaze grew narrower and narrower. Bobby quickly cut through the metal lining and began sorting through the bundles of wiring he exposed. A small voice inside him gibbered in panic, but he forced that voice down, ignored it. His days of panicking in a tough situation were gone, though that voice of fear would never be completely silenced.

Muttering to himself, Bobby stared at the wiring he'd exposed. He didn't have a chart to tell him what the color coding meant, and that was a problem. His only real hope was that he could recognize the system manufacturer and decode the circuits based on that. After all, OZT would have had to contract their construction out to have kept their secret so long. It stood to reason that they'd also contracted the security work.

"Think, Popsicle. What does this remind you of?" He snorted softly. _A candy store_, was the first answer that leapt to mind. Red with white stripes, blue with yellow stripes, green, purple and brown... _They didn't even have the decency to mark the ground wire with something obvious_. But, that was the point, and the thought jiggled something in his memory. He paused, searching for the connection.

"Ya got it?" Logan asked, his voice deceptively mild.

All of a sudden, information clicked together in Bobby's brain. "Yes! It's Hakimura." The manufacturer was a subsidiary of Mitsubishi, and one of the best security system makers on the planet. Bobby's initial excitement died. "Ugh. This isn't gonna be easy."

"What isn't?" Scott demanded. From his voice alone, Bobby could tell he was angry.

_Oh well_, Bobby thought resignedly. _I've pretty much committed myself now_. He picked up a pair of wire strippers and glanced at Scott. "Building an override for the door."

Scott blinked at him as if he hadn't expected such a forthright answer. Bobby ignored him and went back to work. He moved as fast as he could, and under other circumstances might have been pretty pleased, but with their lives hanging in the balance all he could do was curse himself for not being able to splice the wires with Remy's uncanny speed. He wasn't even certain he was doing it right.

_Nevermind_, he told himself firmly, twisting the final wire pair together. He sat back, eyes roaming the tangle to verify that he hadn't overlooked something obvious. Then, satisfied, he turned to Logan. Now all they needed was a surge to the system to trip the safeties and retract the door. He stood and unslung his automatic rifle.

"Everybody ready?" he asked. To his surprise, they were, despite the stares. Bishop and Rogue stood to either side of the door, ready to cover the hallway with strafing fire. Behind them, the other X-Men were split into two teams. All of them watched him with varying degrees of expectancy.

He adjusted his grip on the rifle. _Please let this work_, he prayed silently, then smashed the butt of the rifle into the control panel beside the door. The plastic cover shattered and sparks flew, making Bobby flinch. With a hiss, the door rolled upward. Bobby wanted to cheer and throw up at the same time. He did neither. Instead, he grabbed the bag of tools and the data from the safe and followed his teammates out into the hall. He could already hear the sounds of gunfire ahead of him and could only hope it was human security forces they were dealing with, not Sentinels.

#-#-#-#

Remy was at the house when the X-Men returned, sitting in the living room chatting with Jean and Hank. Scott felt a completely irrational urge to simply walk over and strangle the man.

"You have an awful lot to answer for, Gambit," was all he could think of to say as the X-Men filed in. He had no idea how to put into words the sense of betrayal he felt. The hurt. What had Remy done? Bobby was a good kid, a good X-Man. He didn't deserve to have his life messed up by a lazy, amoral, authority-hating criminal... Scott paused, taken aback by his own thoughts. The unthinking vilification made it suddenly clear how deep his animosity toward Gambit went, and it surprised him to realize it.

In the silence that followed his words, Jean got up and came over to him, her expression worried. "Did something happen?" she asked, laying a hand on his arm.

"You could say that," he answered tightly. Around him, the other X-Men looked distinctly uncomfortable though no one made a motion to leave. Remy looked at Scott for a few moments before turning to Bobby, one eyebrow raised in silent question. Scott dreaded hearing what the young X-Man might say.

Bobby stepped forward and set the knapsack he'd been carrying down on the coffee table. He glanced once at Scott, his expression diffident, and shrugged. "We ran into some trouble."

To Scott, the blinding understatement did nothing to describe the events of the past few hours and the horrible ways in which his world had been permanently rearranged. It wasn't _just_ Bobby, he knew. In the firefight following their escape, they'd been forced to kill most of the guards who'd been outside the office, waiting for the Sentinels to arrive. Scott was a soldier. He'd seen carnage before. But X-Men didn't kill, and the sprawled bodies of the uniformed guards were permanently etched into his memory. Their blood was on his hands.

He turned to Gambit, shoving the memories away. There was nothing he could do about those guards. Remy, however, was right in front of him, and could be dealt with. "How long has this been going on?" he demanded, his gaze split between Bobby and Remy.

Bobby surprised him by answering first, his tone scathing. "Come on, Scott. You didn't really think we were out bar hopping every night, did you?"

Across the room, Rogue stared at Bobby in wide-eyed surprise that quickly narrowed into a thoughtful frown. Scott's anger coalesced into a hard ball in his stomach. But before he could say anything, Logan stepped forward and held up a hand. "Before this gets ugly, there're some questions that need answerin'." He looked pointedly from Gambit to Bobby and back.

Scott had to admit to himself that Logan was probably a better person to do the asking, despite how much he itched to lay into the two X-Men. He forced himself to nod in agreement. Jean's fingers tightened on his arm. He drew her closer, taking some small comfort in her presence as Logan turned to Bobby.

"Learnin' a few tricks from Gumbo ain't the same as becomin' a thief." The silver that streaked Logan's hair glimmered in the light as he nodded toward the other man. He managed to give the impression he was chewing on one of his cheroots though he didn't have anything in his mouth. "That was a piece o' professional work tonight."

Bobby nodded cautiously. "Thank you." His voice was sardonic. Scott was stunned by the hardness in his blue eyes.

Logan gave Bobby an evaluating stare, as if trying to figure out exactly how to take the comment. Then he cocked his head. "Ya wearin' a Guild mark, Bobby?" His voice was that soft tone that automatically set the hairs on the back of Scott's neck to prickling. Around the room, the other X-Men had turned wide-eyed stares on Bobby.

"A what?" Scott asked as his stomach sank. He was dead certain he wouldn't like the answer, but he needed to understand what Logan meant.

Logan shrugged lightly and touched a point at the base of his skull. "The Guild marks its members. I don't know what the marks mean, exactly, but I've seen 'em verified." He shrugged again. "Mark's made out o' metal, burned inta the bone. Hard ta fake."

"Hurts like anything, too." Bobby spread his hands, a familiar guileless grin flickering on his face. After a moment, the smile died. "Yeah, I'm wearing a Guild mark," he admitted.

For the first time since the conversation started, Scott saw anger on Logan's face and felt a sense of satisfaction. If even Logan was upset at Gambit for what he'd done, maybe Scott's feelings weren't quite as out of line as he'd feared.

The Canuck turned on Gambit. "I got no problem with ya teachin' him some o' the trade," he told Remy severely, "But the Guild's another thing entirely--!" He stopped and his gaze widened, as if he'd come to a sudden, startling conclusion. He turned back to Bobby.

"This is about Diedre, ain't it." It wasn't really a question. His anger seemed to evaporate.

Scott held his breath as he waited for Bobby to answer. He wanted to hear Bobby say that yes, it was all a horrible mistake, but he'd been in love and not thinking straight... His hopes were dashed as Bobby slowly shook his head.

"Not really." He sighed tiredly and ran a hand through his overlong hair. Scott noticed absently that he was going to be able to pull it back in a queue soon. "It started out that way... " For the first time since the conversation began, Bobby looked to Remy.

The Cajun's flat mask softened. "An' if I'd known at de time who she was, I would've told y' 'no' an' sat on y' 'til y' came t' y' senses." His voice was tinged with wry humor. Scott couldn't imagine finding anything funny about the situation at all.

"What do you mean, 'told him 'no''?" On some level, Scott was amazed they were still discussing this rationally, rather than arguing about it at the top of their lungs, or worse. But maybe OZT had shaken them all out of their normal patterns. His own anger was there, pushed down and knotted up in his stomach, but not likely to explode out of him and put them all in danger.

Bobby's fair skin began to redden. "I asked Remy to teach me to be a thief," he admitted.

"You _what_?" Scott couldn't quite believe his ears.

Bobby ignored him. "Because it was the only way to get to Diedre." He shrugged. "But after a while, it stopped being about Diedre and started being about me." He met Scott's gaze with an honesty that surprised the X-Men's field leader. "I became a thief because that's what _I_ wanted to do... and to be."

"Taking from others is wrong, Robert." Ororo's expression was painfully closed. "Surely you know that." She looked from him to Remy. "I can understand stealing to eat, to survive, to get off the streets. I have done that, and feel no shame for it." Her gaze locked with Remy's, filling with compassion for a moment before she broke away to look at Bobby once more. "But you have never known such need. How can you claim any reason as good enough?" She turned to Remy. "And how could you let him?"

Remy stiffened, an expression of real pain flitting across his face before it turned to stone.

"Stop it, all of you." To Scott's surprise, Jean stepped away from him, holding up her hands, palms out, as if to keep combatants from leaping at each other. She turned slowly, examining each of them with the keen expression Scott knew was the precursor to something momentous.

She lowered her hands. "I can't tell you the basis for this, because I consider it privileged information." She paused, turning to face Scott. "But the Professor knew about all of this." Several exclamations of surprise punctuated her statement, which she ignored. Her piercing green gaze, so incredibly dear to him, was full of appeal. "Not only that, but he _approved_, Scott."

Taken aback, Scott could only stare at her. It seemed unfathomable, yet Jean would know if anyone did. "Why?" he asked.

She glanced back over her shoulder at Remy and Scott felt a new burst of anger. She almost seemed to be looking for his permission to answer and when he shrugged in response to the unspoken request, Scott's suspicion was confirmed.

Jean turned to face him once again, her mouth set in a crooked line. "Because Remy has been feeding him information almost from day one, and we've saved countless lives because of it." She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear as she spoke. "As he did with Logan on a consistent basis, and sometime Bishop and Elizabeth, the Professor used the X-Men's resources to their fullest. A good deal of the information this team has operated on is information that only a thief like Remy could come by."

Scott felt as if the rug had been yanked out from underneath him. He could only stare at Gambit as a thousand little details from the past four years cascaded into place all at once. He could suddenly see that the Cajun thief had, indeed, been working for the Professor all that time, maybe working for himself, too. _Lying through his teeth about being retired, and then dragging Bobby into it… _He suddenly realized just exactly what kind of sleight-of-hand Gambit had pulled on him, on them, and he found himself staring at a complete stranger wearing a familiar face.

A deep guffaw shattered the silence. Scott turned to see Logan with his head thrown back, laughing uproariously. Even Gambit stared at him quizzically.

Logan shook one finger at the Cajun, unable to speak through his laughter. Eventually, though, he regained control. He shook his head in disgust.

"I can't _believe_ I fell fer that act o' yours." Logan rolled his eyes. "Four years." With a grin, he mimed tipping a hat in Remy's direction. "Mighty well played... Master Thief, ain't it?"

Remy returned the gesture with a flourished bow. "Oui." Despite his smile, his eyes were serious and wary.

Scott was beginning to hate the ignorant feeling he got every time the subject of the Guilds came up. "What's the significance of a Master Thief?" He hadn't missed the capitalization, or the clear note of respect in Logan's voice.

In response, Logan turned to Bobby. "Drake, how many Masters are there in the American Guilds?"

Infuriatingly, Bobby looked to Gambit for permission before he answered. "Ten, at the moment."

Logan went on, "An' how many in the rest o' the world?"

"Eighteen."

Logan turned back to Scott. "Those twenty-eight men 're acknowledged, world-wide, as the very best in the business. Even the government can't field anything like 'em."

Scott looked at Remy, trying to see the kind of man Logan was describing inside him. Bishops words from a few days before floated through his head, mixing with his own realizations until he found that it wasn't quite as impossible as he might have once believed. If it hadn't been for what Jean had said about the Professor, he knew he would have been utterly horrified. Instead, he wasn't certain how to feel.

For a moment, his own curiosity got the better of him. "I suppose there's some kind of internal rating scheme between these twenty-eight Masters as to who's best." The statement won him a look of surprise from Gambit, who nodded cautiously.

"So where do you fit on the scale?"

Remy stared at him. Scott could see him debating whether to answer. Finally, he came to some conclusion and shrugged eloquently. "Third."

Out of the corner of his eye, Scott saw Ororo's jaw drop. She recovered immediately, but her eyes remained wide. Even Logan looked slightly scandalized, as if that admission had been a good deal more than he'd been expecting.

Remy scanned the room, his expression closing in on itself when he reached Rogue. Scott wasn't sure if he could see the other's dangerous stare, but it was obvious he could feel it, and Scott was momentarily surprised that she had remained silent throughout the discussion. That wasn't like Rogue at all.

Gambit's red eyes flicked to Scott. "Are we done wit' 'Dis Is Y' Life'?" he asked.

"Not yet." Scott met Remy's flat stare, for once unperturbed by it. He felt strangely calm, perhaps because he finally felt like he understood what he was dealing with. The fact that Gambit had effectively played him for a fool made him mad, yes, but... _but_ he felt a whole lot better about dealing with a competent, even dangerously capable thief than the two-bit drifter he'd always taken Gambit for. He swallowed a laugh. _At least now I know he won't get my people killed through incompetence_. He watched Gambit for a moment longer. _Malice, maybe, but not incompetence._ If it weren't for Jean's emphatic support, he would have been extremely suspicious of Gambit's motives. But if both she and the Professor had known all along, and had trusted him...

He sighed. "I guess I only have one more question."

Gambit watched him expectantly.

"Why the secrecy? Why didn't you tell us?" _Why didn't the Professor tell me?_

Remy cocked his head. "Do y' honestly t'ink de X-Men would've left me alone t' do m' job de way it had t' be done?" He smiled briefly. "I had enough trouble keepin' de Prof from sendin' de team out every time I hit a snag."

Scott stiffened instinctively. "The X-Men are supposed to look after each other--"

"Yeah, Scott." Remy looked thoroughly disgusted. "But none o' de people _I_ deal wit' would come near me if dey smelled de X-Men." He waited a moment to let Scott digest that. "It ain' a matter o' trust, if dat's what y' t'inkin'. It's jus' de way t'ings are. If y' wan' my kind o' help, y' got t' let me do t'ings my way."

Scott found that he didn't have an answer to that.

#-#-#-#

"Well, looks like ah finally got the truth out o' ya."

Remy stiffened, but kept his back turned to the doorway from which Rogue's voice emanated. He needed the time to get his expression under control. _This feels like an ambush._ He snorted to himself. It probably was one, and he couldn't honestly claim he didn't deserve it.

Slowly, he turned around. "Guess so," he agreed. They stared at each other in silence for several long moments.

Eventually Rogue pushed away from the doorframe and walked into the room. She didn't approach him directly, but instead prowled the limits of the small space, her bare fingers trailing across the edges of the furniture, the windowsill, the wainscoting. Remy turned slowly, watching her.

After a while she stopped and turned toward him. "Ain't ya got anythin' ta say ta me?" Her voice was harsh. Hurt.

Remy bit down firmly on his tongue and the sarcastic response that wanted to leap off it. He was painfully aware that he could lose her forever in the space of the next few minutes if he wasn't careful. Maybe even if he was. _But I never_ really _expected to tell the X-Men even as much as I just did_.

He swallowed a sigh. "Not'ing y' wan' hear, I'm guessin'."

She paused, turning her head away for a moment as if hiding her expression. When she spoke, her voice was scathing. "Nah. Ah suppose 'Ah'm sorry' ain't in ya repertoire, is it?"

"I _tried_ t' tell y'!" Involuntarily, his hands balled into fists at his sides.

She cocked her head mockingly. "_Tried?_ Sugah, how hard is it ta say 'Ah'm a Master Thief, Rogue, with no intentions o' evah leavin' the business'? Hmm?"

"Dat's 'gainst Guild rules." The words came out flat, angry. It was true. He couldn't identify himself as a Master to anyone who wasn't Guild or Clan, unless they already knew enough to ask the right questions.

Rogue relented, crossing her arms and staring directly at him. "All right. Ya couldn't say that much. But ya sure coulda told me more than ya did."

Remy's stomach sank. That one hit close to the truth. He took a deep breath. "Oui, chere. I could've." But there were two sides to that coin. "Y' didn' wan' hear it, though, so I didn'."

Rogue gaped at him. "'Ah didn't want ta hear it?'" she demanded incredulously. "Remy, what've ah been askin' ya foh the last two years?"

Remy bit his lip. He could give her the answer she wanted to hear, which was true, or the answer she didn't want to hear, which he suspected was even more true. Neither one would do him much good, though, so he kept silent.

A frustrated growl escaped her. "All ah wanted was ta know was what ya were up ta." She held up a hand. "Not because ah wanted ta keep tabs on ya, all right? Ah didn't even want ta tag along, not most o' the time, anyway." Her shoulders slumped and she shook her head. "Ah guess ah just wanted ta know that ya trusted me that much."

The pain in her voice robbed him of breath. As much as her behavior made him angry, even furious sometimes, he'd never meant to hurt her. He felt incredibly weary. "How could I, chere?" he answered. "When every time I showed y' somet'ing 'bout me, y' got mad?"

Rogue stared at him for a moment, then threw up her hands. "O' course ah got mad!"

Remy just stared at her. "An' dat's supposed t' be all right wit' me? I should jus' tell y' everyt'ing y' wan' know, an' never mind who y' might go to t' try an' stop me if y' didn' like what I was doin'?"

She recoiled a step. "Ah would nevah have done that!"

"Really?" he challenged. He found the claim hard to believe. She was far too protective.

"Yes." She planted her fists on her hips. "Ya forgettin' who raised me."

He snorted. "Y' don' act like Raven's daughter, chere. If y' did, we wouldn' be havin' this conversation."

Her gasp was part shock, part fury. "Just because Mystique raised me doesn't mean ah want ta be like her! How dare ya stand there an' tell me ya won't trust me because ah ain't up ta mah eyeballs in the business!"

Remy struggled to keep his temper from exploding. "I never asked y' t' get involved," he grated. "Y' didn' wan' it, so I tried t' keep y' out." He wished with all his heart that he could see the gaze that bored into him. "All I wanted from y' was f' y' t' _accept _dat it's a part o' m' life."

Rogue sank onto the edge of the dresser. "Ah'm involved by definition, Remy. Ya bein' naive if ya think ya can keep me out by keepin' me in the dark."

The bitter truth settled like a lump in Remy's stomach. "I wasn' _tryin'_ t' keep y' out. I was _tryin'_ t' get y' t' come _in_." He shook his head sadly. "I t'ought, if I took it slow enough, y'd eventually come around."

She stared at him in dismay. "How am ah evah gonna get it through ya thick skull that ah don't want ta have anythin' ta do with that life?" There was no anger in her voice, only painful determination. "Ah'm an X-Man now an' ah don't intend ta let you o' Mystique o' anyone else drag me back inta that."

She sighed. "Ah was just a fool foh thinkin' ya'd evah walk away." She touched her head. "Ah should've known better." He understood that she meant because she had absorbed him.

Remy realized he was shaking and pressed his palms against the sides of his thighs. "So is this where it ends?" he asked. The words hurt coming out, as if they were tearing his heart out with them.

Rogue turned her head away. "Ah don't know, sugah." She levered herself to her feet. "Right now, ah am so mad at ya." Her voice was even, controlled. "Ah don't want ta make any kind o' snap decisions."

She pulled herself erect, then slowly walked away. Remy couldn't think of a single thing to say, and so he had no choice but to watch her go.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Remy stood in the midst of the chaos in the Guild's communications center, eyes closed as he listened to the television coverage of events currently taking place in Los Angeles. Around him, the Guild members who had taken up responsibilities within the center babbled at each other and at Remy, voicing a hundred questions for which they had no answers. On the television monitors, breaking news programs described the horde of Prime Sentinels that had descended on the city, uprooting and destroying a group of mutants hidden there. The reports were using words like "secret organization" and "mutant terrorist cells", but Remy was very afraid that truth was something far worse.

_Please don' let dis be what I t'ink it is._

Though OZT did not officially control any aspect of the government of the United States, it was becoming painfully clear that Bastion was pulling all of the strings. The news was becoming more and more obviously censored. Every local and national television station currently showed coverage of the blitz on Los Angeles, but the extent of the damage could only be guessed at from a few clues. Even Trish Tilby sounded strained, as if the words she used were so grossly incorrect she was having trouble with her lines.

Beside Remy, a small phone began to beep. His gut clenched into a hard, cold knot. In the communications center, the discrete noise managed to pierce the din. The babble of voices fell away and Remy could feel the eyes of every person there turning toward him.

With a nonchalance he didn't feel, Remy reached over and picked up the sleek handset. It was the Guildmaster's private phone, a secure line that linked the Guild leaders. The handset itself was coded to Remy's fingerprints and could not be used by anyone else.

"LeBeau," he said quietly.

"Are you watching the news, Remy?" Guildmaster Lotho sounded as grim as Remy had every heard him.

"Oui."

"Then you know that the Los Angeles Guild has been compromised."

Remy's stomach twisted savagely as his worst fears were confirmed. "Oui." He grabbed control of his feelings and tried to concentrate. "How bad's de damage?"

Lotho paused. "Bad. The Guild was particularly vulnerable because they didn't have an underground complex to retreat to." If he condemned that branch of the Guild for its lack of preparation, he didn't let it show in his voice. "They only had a few minutes' warning before the Sentinels began their laser bombardment. They did manage to mislead the Sentinels to some degree and got two aircraft off the ground, but that's all. As far as we can tell, the Guild has been completely destroyed. Some of the Clans may have managed to scatter, but they're hunting mutants up and down the street. You can see that on the TV." He sighed, sounding incredibly weary. "I doubt that many will survive."

Adrenaline poured through Remy as his instinctive fight-or-flight reflex came to life. "How did Bastion find out 'bout de Guild? Are de ot'ers at risk?" He had ideas, plans for how to protect the Guild if OZT ever discovered the New York complex, but those were inadequate and he knew it.

"No, we don't think the other Guilds have been compromised," Lotho answered. "They would have hit the other cities at the same time. Their assault method doesn't lead me to believe they suspect our existence, either. Otherwise, they would have been trying to take prisoners for questioning."

Remy wanted to put the phone down, but couldn't. The L.A. Guild had boasted more than five hundred thieves, with a Clan population matched only by New York. They were the newest, most aggressive of the American Guilds, and one of the most profitable.

_An' now dey're all dead_. It was hard to fathom.

"The two aircraft that made it out of L.A. are still in the air," Lotho said, drawing Remy out of his thoughts. "I've diverted them to New York."

"What?" Remy was caught off guard. "Why?"

Lotho's tone turned sharp. "Because, of all of us, you're the only one who saw this coming, Guildmaster, and New York is the most secure site because of it." He sighed softly. "It'll take a miracle to get those planes down in one piece, but I trust that you can find me that miracle." He paused and lowered his voice. "Between the two, they have almost a hundred children on board, Remy. They were trying to at least get the kids out."

Remy caught the corner of the table to steady himself. His vision swam, filling with a scene from his nightmares-- torn and mangled bodies strewn across the floor of the Morlock tunnels, empty-eyed children whose only crime had been to belong to the band of underground dwellers. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. _Never again_. It was a promise he'd made to himself, a fierce oath that alone let him live with the guilt. _Never again._

"I'll get dem down," he told Lotho grimly.

#-#-#-#

The basement always smelled a little bit like mold, Scott thought. Despite the new smells of gunpowder, oil, metal and nylon that now characterized the dank space, the underlying smell of flourishing mildew remained. It made his nose itch whenever he noticed it. Currently, the basement was full as the X-Men practiced. Sparring mats took up one corner of the cement room, while an obstacle course had taken over the target range. Storm's team worked their way through the course, practicing squad tactics and pausing occasionally to discuss how adapt their old techniques to the current circumstances. Scott sat off to the side, observing while he cleaned his rifle. A small radio sat beside him, playing news coverage of the Sentinels' attack on Los Angeles.

_What I wouldn't give to have even half of the equipment we had at the mansion_, he thought grimly. Jean was upstairs with the remaining members of the team, watching the coverage on the television, but there was absolutely nothing the X-Men could do about it. Scott ground his teeth in silent frustration. He hated feeling helpless.

On the practice floor, Storm had split her group into squads led by Logan and Rogue. The two groups covered each other as they advanced through the obstacles, following a path marked for them by Bobby, who held the vanguard position. Scott frowned unhappily. Storm had adjusted to the knowledge of Bobby's chosen... profession, if one could call it that... much more quickly than he'd expected. Scott was still struggling with it. It was one thing to find out that Gambit was so much more than he appeared. In a bizarre way, that was almost good news, despite the questions it raised. But Bobby-- Scott shook his head. He just couldn't understand how anyone who didn't have to could _choose_ to become a thief.

Scott watched the squads advance for a few more moments, his attention focused on the young blond haired man that crept through the shadows, his movements confident and professional. He sighed. Even more disturbing, perhaps, than Bobby choosing to follow Gambit to the Thieves guild, was the effect it had had on him.

_Or maybe I just resent the fact that in less than two years Gambit managed to do more with him than I did in the eight previous ones_. Bobby's development had always been a source of concern both for himself and the Professor. It rankled that Gambit-- with all his street-smart arrogance and hatred of authority-- had waltzed in, dragged Bobby into every dark alley and shady deal he could find, and had somehow managed to give the young man exactly what he needed. Something that neither Scott nor the Professor had ever been able to give him.

The general commotion in the basement came to an abrupt halt as the trapdoor in the corner swung upward and Gambit climbed through. Even Scott was taken aback, his earlier train of thought scattering. The Cajun's angular face was set in a grim mask that did little to cover the desperation lurking behind it. Scott recognized the expression, but had never seen it on Remy's face before. Every danger instinct he possessed came alive in that instant and he jumped to his feet, rifle in hand.

"What is it, Gambit?" he demanded.

Remy stared at him for a single instant, his expression torn. Then the expression disappeared completely. "I need de Blackbird an' a good pilot." Despite the composure he wore on his face, his voice was ragged.

The X-Men gathered around them curiously as Scott digested the statement. He cocked his head, baffled rather than angry at the sudden demand. "The Blackbird? What for?"

Beside Storm, Bobby watched Gambit with an expression of horror. "Remy, what's happened?"

Remy's gaze snapped from Scott to the young thief, then returned. "Y' been watchin' de news?" he asked Scott.

Scott nodded. There was only one event that he could be referring to. "Los Angeles."

Remy's lips thinned as his gaze moved to Bobby's once more. "Dat's de L.A. Guild dey been huntin' down an' murderin'." Bobby paled at his words and Remy shook his head. "Dere two airplanes on dere way here, wit' de only survivors." He looked back at Scott. "I need some kind o' air coverage t' get dem on de ground safely, an' de Blackbird's de only option I've got."

Scott noticed the words Remy was using with interest. _I_ need, he'd said, not _the Guild_ needs. But that thought was quickly buried by others. "That's a big risk. We can't afford to lose the Blackbird." Or _the X-Men flying it._ His conscience twinged even as he said the words. The X-Men were supposed to protect those who couldn't protect themselves from people like Bastion, no matter who they were... and no matter what the cost.

Remy, apparently, had similar thoughts. His red eyes sparked dangerously, even without their eerie mutant glow. "I ain' askin' y' t' put de X-Men at risk f' t'ieves, Cyclops." His voice was angry. "De Guild takes care o' dere own." Remy stopped abruptly, his voice breaking on the last word. Scott stared in surprise as the other man's flat mask shattered.

"Dose planes 're full o' children, Scott."

_Children._ The bottom dropped out of Scott's stomach as he stared at Gambit. Similar feelings reflected on the faces of the X-Men around them. Somehow, in imagining Remy's guild, he'd always thought of thieves only. Dark men who broke the law without concern for the rights or property of others. He'd never imagined families, never imagined children.

For a moment, he wondered if Gambit could be making that part up, manipulating him through his conscience. He wouldn't put it past the Cajun, if for no other reason than he'd lied to them before when he thought there was a good enough reason.

Scott made his decision. He couldn't ignore the need, but that didn't mean he had to take Gambit's word without testing its truthfulness. He nodded sharply. "All right, Gambit, you've got the Blackbird-- and me to fly it."

Gambit's gaze flickered in surprise that shaded into approval. But, there was little argument that Scott was the best pilot they had.

Scott turned to the gathered X-Men, his expression grim. _Time for that test._ "Rogue, you're my co-pilot," he told her. She understood the Blackbird's systems better than most, and was a capable pilot. But more importantly, he knew Remy would never agree to risk her life without a very good reason.

Startled, Rogue nodded.

Scott turned back to Gambit, gauging his reaction. All he saw was a flash of dismay, quickly hidden as the thief nodded again. Scott kept his reaction to himself. _Looks like he was telling the truth._ Strangely, that made Scott feel better, and with his doubts resolved, the intense focus that was his hallmark came to life. Everything that needed to happen in order to get the Blackbird into the air scrolled through his mind. He automatically began juggling pieces to make the most efficient use of their time and resources.

"What about the rest of us?" Logan asked, his arms crossed over his chest.

Gambit shook his head. "Y' can' do much on de ground 'gainst Sentinels. If we can get dose planes down, de Guild c'n take care o' gettin' de kids out."

Logan scowled at him. "Ya ought ta take all the help ya c'n get, Gumbo."

"De X-Men can' disappear like t'ieves can," Remy answered. "We ain' plannin' t' fight. Jus' snatch an' run. Anyt'ing else be suicide."

Scott was forced to agree with the logic and saw Logan give Remy a begrudging nod. "What's our time frame?" Scott asked.

The Cajun paused for several seconds as if referencing an internal clock the rest of them couldn't see. "Forty-three minutes."

#-#-#-#

_Who are these people?_ Scott thought as he turned the cloaked Blackbird to make an arcing pass across the makeshift landing strip the thieves had chosen. The landing site was simply a street, four lanes wide, that ran between two rows of office buildings. The late night traffic was sparse but present, and he worried briefly about the chances that some innocent motorist might get hurt. Two of the tallest buildings flanking the runway had significant activity on their roofs as people worked feverishly to finish assembling two high-density laser anti-aircraft cannon.

_What are thieves doing with that kind of artillery, anyway?_ Scott shook his head. He wasn't certain why they were bringing the airplanes into the heart of the city. It seemed to him that it would be safer to choose a more open landing site. The narrow tunnel between buildings would take both skill and luck to navigate, and that was without Sentinels. But maybe they felt they could disappear more easily in the dense city center.

"Rogue, where are they?" He made a quick visual sweep of the flight instruments. Everything was green, but they were burning precious fuel.

Beside him, Rogue kept her attention focused on the displays. "No sign yet, sugah. The Sentinels 're still on their regular patrol routes." She glanced out the window for a moment as they circled and shook her head. "That's quite the professional operation they've got goin' down there." Her voice had a reflective quality that Scott had rarely heard. "Whoevah's in charge knows what they're doin'."

Surprised by the analysis, Scott nonetheless had to agree. The two anti-aircraft emplacements had nearly unlimited fields of fire and could cover the entire length of the street from aerial assault. The cannon were heavy enough to damage Sentinels, possibly even bring them down. Remy had assured him that the people manning them knew about the Blackbird and that it would splash as a friendly on their targeting screens once he dropped the cloaking field. Scott could only hope he was right.

Rogue straightened abruptly in her seat. "Got 'em, Cyke. Two bogeys comin' in on heading one-one-zero. Sentinels are breakin' off to take a look." She touched several keys on her instrument panel. "Let's see if we can identify 'em."

On the pilot's heads up display, Scott could see two blips that represented the distant aircraft and the larger splashes that marked the Sentinels. Adrenaline tingled through his veins as he turned the Blackbird on an intercept course and accelerated. They closed on the Sentinels with frightening speed, reaching them just as the first Sentinel opened fire. Scott decloaked the Bird and returned fire, cutting between the approaching Sentinels and the two business jets, and thanking Lilandra over and over again in his mind for the matchless performance the Shi'ar technology gave them.

Scott arced the Blackbird up and over the Sentinels, fighting to breathe through the g-forces that shoved against his chest. He rolled out, lining up on another Sentinel as he did so. He pressed the firing button, noticing at the same time that the trailing airplane of the two had a thick billow of smoke coming out of one engine. It was still on course, though, and Scott silently wished the pilot luck.

Bright red beams lanced out of the Blackbird's underbelly, striking the Sentinel full on, staggering it. Shrill alarms began to wail in the cockpit as several other Sentinels locked onto them and Scott jinked wildly to evade the laser barrage. Twisting through the air, the Blackbird pulled away unharmed as the sky behind them lit up as the Sentinels came in range of the anti-aircraft guns.

Rogue's face was pale as they rolled into a steep turn to bring them back into the fray. Below, the two business jets cut between the long row of buildings, losing both altitude and speed as they came in to land. At rooftop level, lasers crisscrossed the gap, creating a protective net that captured the Sentinels' fire.

"Uh oh, sugah. They're goin' after the guns now." As Rogue spoke, two of the Sentinels dropped into a hover, their laser bombardment concentrated on the rooftops where the thieves maintained their counter fire.

Scott tried to target the nearer of the two, but couldn't hold his position as three additional Sentinels barreled toward them. "They're coming from everywhere!" he snarled as he threw the Blackbird into a steep climb to escape the forming trap. Seven Sentinel icons now swarmed on his display, with more arriving every few minutes.

"South gun emplacement destroyed," Rogue informed him, her tone flat. Scott didn't need her to tell him that the men who had been manning the cannon were dead. As they came around again, he could see the pillar of flames rising from the top of the building. The wreckage of a Prime Sentinel tumbled from the sky, trailing smoke. Scott felt a wash of grim satisfaction. They'd taken one of the enemy with them, at least.

Scott advanced the throttles to make a strafing run of the line of Sentinels pursuing the two airplanes toward their landing site. The lead airplane was already on the ground, its engine noise a muted roar that echoed between the buildings as it poured on reverse thrust for braking. The second, smaller jet was just above and behind it, wavering slightly as the pilot struggled to land with only one engine.

Then several things happened at once. The Blackbird sliced across the space in front of the advancing Sentinels, spraying laser beams as the second gun emplacement exploded behind them in a ball of flames that engulfed the entire top of the building. In the sudden emptiness, one of the least damaged Sentinels opened fire on the business jets.

"No!" Rogue's strangled cry was his only warning as the beams speared the wing of the smaller jet, shredding it. The suddenly destabilized airplane wheeled sharply and slammed into the face of one of the office buildings, exploding into flames. A wall of fire and smoke briefly hid the other jet from view.

Scott was filled with a nameless fury. He pulled hard on the controls, bringing the Blackbird around in a high-g loop that made the edges of his vision flicker and dove back toward the Sentinels, hammering them with his lasers. Return fire from the Sentinels slammed into the Blackbird's shields, making the plane shudder.

An unfamiliar voice crackled across Scott's headset. "Break off, Blackbird." Whoever it was was breathing heavily, as if he were running at the same time. "I repeat, break off. We're pulling back. We got everyone we could." Even through the static and electrical noise, Scott could hear the suppressed anguish in the man's voice.

The voice paused for a moment, then came back, full of raw sincerity. "I don't know who you are, but thank you. We couldn't have saved any of them without your help."

Scott looked over at Rogue and saw her mouth form a strained smile that matched his own feelings perfectly.

"You're welcome," he told the unknown thief as he rolled the Blackbird into a turn, aiming for a break between two of the hovering Sentinels. "Blackbird, out." And with that he switched the cloaking field back on as they ducked between the machines and made a break for home.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

The main tunnels leading into the Guild complex emerged into a monstrous natural cavern that had somehow become the center of the thieves' underground community. Part of the area had been taken up by a kind of flea market, despite the fact that in the present situation the Guild provided for all of its members in a surprisingly effective socialist manner. Another portion of the cavern had been marked off into playing fields which were almost always in use. Bobby sometimes marveled at the organization of the Guild. They had soccer and volleyball leagues going to help keep the children active and entertained in the underground complex.

Right now, though, the cavern was simply full of people as the Guild and Clans came out to meet their returning members and the children they had risked so much to save. Bobby glanced over at Remy, secretly afraid of how he might react. There was a hardness in his eyes that hadn't been there a few hours earlier and Bobby had the strangest feeling that something inside the Guildmaster had snapped when the second jet crashed.

From the expressions on the faces that surrounded him as the returning thieves made their way into the cavern, Bobby could tell they'd already heard what had happened and knew about those who were not returning with them. The noise level remained a murmur of voices interrupted by wails as the exhausted, terrified children were absorbed into the front rows of the crowd. All eyes remained on the Guildmaster.

Remy seemed oblivious to the attention. He held a boy of seven or eight in his arms, but looked past the child, his gaze distant. After a little bit, though, he came back to himself and looked around at the sea of expectant faces.

"Dese seventy-one children are all dat's left o' de Los Angeles Guild." He raised his voice to carry across the crowd, his long face somber. "Dere homes are gone-- dere families." He paused and Bobby could see him gathering himself. "So from today on, _dis _will be dere new home. We will be dere family." Nods and a murmur of agreement followed the Guildmaster's statement.

Remy turned a full circle, looking out over the crowd in appeal. "If any o' you have room in y' home, in y' family... in y' heart... dese children need it."

Bobby glanced down in surprise at the girl in his arms. She couldn't have been any more than two years old, a golden-haired, blue-eyed angel with streaks of soot covering her face and clothes. If he and Diedre were ever to have a daughter, he thought, she would probably look just like this one. Filled with sudden resolution, Bobby squeezed the little girl tightly. Diedre would be willing, he was certain.

He watched with a growing sense of pride as thieves and clansmen came forward, claiming a child or sometimes several as siblings were identified, then picking them up and carrying them away. Artur Valencia, with both of his teenage daughters beside him, took the boy from Remy's arms. The two men talked quietly for a few minutes and Bobby took the opportunity to study his friend, his mentor, his Guildmaster. There was something wrong with Remy, he decided, though he couldn't put his finger on what it might be. Nothing in his behavior seemed out of place, yet Bobby couldn't dismiss his feelings of concern.

Pushing the thoughts away, he went in search of his wife. There was nothing he could do right now. Maybe later, when he could find an opportunity to talk to Remy privately without the strict hierarchy of Guild ranks.

He found Diedre after a few minutes and couldn't help his smile as her eyes lit up on seeing him. She slipped up against him, gentle and beautiful as her snowflake nickname, her blue eyes full of questions as she took in the little girl he held.

"We have room--" he began, only to be silenced as she reached up to kiss him.

"Of course we do." Her smile glowed as she backed up a step to look into the girl's face. "Hi, sweetie."

The girl only stared at her, her face empty. Bobby supposed that wasn't too surprising. An adult would be overwhelmed by the things that had happened that day, let alone a tiny child. Diedre's smile dimmed, but she held out her arms to the girl. After a moment's hesitation, Bobby felt the body in his arms lean toward her. He let Diedre take her, oddly pleased as the girl curled up against her and laid her head on Diedre's shoulder.

Diedre stroked her hair, then looked up at him. "Can you come home?" she asked softly.

Bobby turned to look for Remy, but didn't see him. He shrugged. "For a little while, I guess." Then he would either have work to do making sure OZT didn't find the Guild because of the stunt they'd just pulled, or he'd need to go back to the X-Men.

He put an arm around her shoulder and together they turned toward their quarters.

#-#-#-#

Remy sank into the leather chair behind the Guildmaster's broad desk and held his hands out in front of him. They were shaking, blurring the edges of their faintly glowing outlines. He stared at them intently, concentrating, until the tremor disappeared. More than anything, he wanted to curl up in a fetal ball around the pain in his gut. His stomach heaved and twirled in a nauseating dance that left him swallowing hard against the bile that rose in his throat.

_Not'ing I could do. Not'ing I could do. Not'ing I could do_. He repeated the words over and over again to himself as if that might make them more believable. All he could see when he closed his eyes was the brilliant flash of the explosion followed by an expanding ball of glowing gasses and flame. And over that, he could hear the terrified cries of the children inside as they were cut down, torn apart by laser fire and flashing claws...

"Non!" Remy slammed both palms down on the surface of the desk as one image impinged on another. Sweat covered him, sliding down his back in cold rivulets as he fought to hold the past at bay. _Dis ain' like de Morlocks_, he told himself. _It ain'._ Slowly, he pushed the crowding memories away until he could breathe again.

Later, he reached out and picked up the small phone that lay on the desk. The tech that answered him from the communications center quickly patched him into his secured line and put through the call to Chicago. Remy waited while the phone on the other end rang, his fingers flexing spasmodically on the handset. He wanted to break something, destroy something... anything to release the fury pent inside him. In some ways, having the Danger Room to let loose in had been an incredible benefit. Within the Guild he could never afford to lose control that way.

The line picked up with a click. "Hello, Remy." Guildmaster Lotho said without preamble. "I saw the news reports. How many survived?"

Remy hadn't seen the TV, but he could guess what the news had been showing. Nausea clenched his stomach once again. "Seventy-one, plus de pilot." Miraculously, his voice sounded only a little strained.

"And the second plane was lost completely?"

Remy bit his lip and nodded. "Oui. We lost bot' de gun crews, too. Eight men." Men Remy had assigned to their posts.

Lotho sighed tiredly. "A bitter victory... You did well, Guildmaster. No one could have done any more."

Remy wanted to tear the phone away from his ear. Lotho's gratitude didn't seem appropriate or deserved when there were thirty-three dead children in the wreckage of that second plane. Luckily, Lotho went on, sparing Remy from a response.

"I do have to question where you got a Blackbird, though." His voice had become businesslike. "Involving the military is a heavy risk, no matter where the individual pilot's or commanding officer's loyalties might lie. What precautions are you taking to make sure OZT can't trace the Guild through that airplane?"

Remy dragged his thoughts into line as the meaning of the Guildmaster's words sank in. "Ain' a mil'tary bird," he answered, his thickening accent showing just how thin his emotional self-control had been stretched.

Lotho paused. "A private SR-71? Who has--?" He stopped abruptly and in the silence Remy could only shake his head. Just as he'd never intended to tell the X-Men about his real role in the Guild, he'd never intended to let the Guild know about his involvement with the X-Men. They might forbid it as a risk to the Guild's anonymity. But giving that information away was preferable to lying outright to the leader of the American Guilds.

"Well, that explains a few things." Lotho sounded thoughtful when he finally spoke.

Remy almost asked what he meant, but then decided he didn't really care. He waited in silence for Lotho to go on.

"How much do they know about the Guild?" Lotho asked after a moment. The question was serious, but tinged with curiosity.

Remy chewed on his answer, deciding that a judicious application of truth was in order. "A lil'. Not enough t' be a threat." He didn't mention Bobby. Lotho would have to figure that one out for himself. Remy had followed all of the Guild's requirements in bringing Bobby in to the thieves' world. No one had ever asked, so at worst he'd get his hand slapped for not telling them who the young man was.

"All right." Lotho sounded like he was shaking his head in consternation. "I suppose I'll have to trust you to keep that under control. They saved Guild lives today-- I can't argue too much."

Remy breathed a silent sigh of relief as Lotho hung up. He carefully set the phone down in its cradle, grimacing as his hands began to shake again.

_Get busy, Remy_, he told himself. That was the only way to hold off the pain. He had plenty to do. The battle with the Sentinels had most certainly alerted OZT to the fact that the L.A. mutants had friends in New York. They would come looking, and it was up to Remy to make sure there was nothing to be found that could lead the Sentinels to the Guild... or to the X-Men.

Taking a deep breath he began to organize his thoughts, and after a few minutes he picked up the phone again to call for Artur.

#-#-#-#

Rogue crept quietly into the bedroom Remy shared with Bobby and Bishop. Midafternoon sunlight fell against the drawn blinds making the plastic slats glow, but the light didn't penetrate very far. In the musty gloom she could barely make out Remy's lanky form. It was the first time he'd come home in the three days since the fight with the Sentinels.

Rogue stopped beside the bed, watching him critically as her eyes adjusted. To her surprise, he was still asleep. But then, he looked like he'd done nothing more than walk in and collapse across the bed. He was completely dressed, down to his boots, and was so thoroughly tangled in the blankets that she wondered if he'd be able to get out of bed without some help.

_Nightmares_, she thought succinctly. Remy lay mostly on his back, his eyelids twitching frantically with the motion of his eyes beneath them. His hair was matted and damp with the sweat that glistened on his forehead. _Hopefully that means he won't mind mah wakin' him up_.

She sat carefully on the edge of the bed and reached over to touch his shoulder. At her touch, Remy uncoiled like a striking cobra. In an instant, Rogue found herself staring directly into the snubbed nose of an automatic pistol. Over the gun she could see a pair of red eyes, wild and angry and empty of recognition as Remy stared at her through the sights.

Rogue's breath froze in her chest. _Don't move_, she instructed herself firmly. _Whatevah ya do, don't react._ Her mother's teachings came back in a flood as she forced herself to hold perfectly still. She could see his finger tighten on the trigger and knew that even a little flicker might get her shot. _He isn't seein' me._

The moment stretched, scary and interminable, as they stared at each other. Then recognition flooded Remy's face and his eyes widened in horror. The gun disappeared, returned to its holster with a single motion.

"Rogue! What are y' doin'? I could've killed y'!" Angrily he tried to throw off the covers but didn't get very far. Rogue watched him struggle, finding it odd that a man as agile as Remy could be trapped by bedsheets. He gave up after a minute and glared at her, chest heaving, as if she were somehow personally responsible for his predicament.

Shaking with adrenaline, Rogue took a deep breath. "Ah was just comin' ta see if ya wanted ta get up foh dinner." Somehow she managed to keep her voice normal.

His anger shattered. He looked away, lips pressed together in a thin line. She could literally see the tension running out of him as he reached up to scrub his face with his hands, running them through his unkempt hair.

Rogue looked down at her own hands which had retreated to her lap, searching desperately for something to say. "That musta been some doozy of a nightmare ya were havin', sugah." He looked up at her comment, red eyes narrowed intently, as she pressed on. "Ya want ta tell me about it?" She tried to keep her voice light-- a simple question, not a demand.

To her dismay, his face closed up, sealing his thoughts behind an impenetrable wall. "Was not'ing." He began carefully unwinding the bedding from around his legs.

Rogue's frustration with him exploded out of her like flash fire. "_Nothin'!_ Ah don't call comin' within a hair o' puttin' a bullet through mah skull 'nothin'', Remy!"

Hurt flashed behind his eyes, mixed with fear. Then he closed his eyes and tipped his head back as if fighting for control. _Tryin' not ta lash out at me_. She knew it was a low blow, even if it was true. She was pretty sure he'd scared himself far more than he had her.

When he straightened and opened his eyes, they were full of conflict. "'M sorry, chere. Y' know I'd never..."

She nodded as his words trailed off, her anger evaporating. "Ah know." She was confident Remy LeBeau would never intentionally harm a single hair on her head. She shrugged. "Comes with the territory, ah guess." She cut her gaze in his direction, meeting his eyes for an instant. "Ya real jumpy these days, though, sugah."

He nodded but didn't say anything. After a moment, he retrieved the pistol from its holster and turned it over in his hands, absently thumbing the safety on. He stared blankly at the weapon as he spoke. "Dere was a time when I lived like dis." He didn't look up at her. "It's all comin' back so fast."

Rogue studied him while she tried to decipher what he'd told her. The feeling he described was all too familiar. Every day Rogue felt herself becoming more and more the person she'd been before joining the X-Men. It was frightening how easily she fell back into the old routines, the old mindset. A part of her hated being forced to remember her training under Mystique. She'd done things for her mother she could never forget and never wash away.

_But it's also the trainin' that's keepin' me alive now, an lettin' me be useful ta the team._ She stifled a sigh. _Mah Momma taught me a lot about the business. Ah know what questions ta ask, if ah'm willin' ta hear the answers._

Biting her lip, she cocked her head and gave him the calmest stare she could muster. "So, are we talkin' general troubleshootin' here? O' black ops maybe? Espionage?... Assassination?" Even though the list made her stomach clench, she tried to hold onto her nonchalance.

Remy looked up at her in surprise and she silently congratulated herself. _See? Ah'm not as intolerant as ya think ah am._

He watched her silently for several long minutes, until it was all Rogue could do to meet his gaze. She wanted to scream at him in frustration for not being open with her, never telling her even the tiniest details about his life, where he went and what he did. But instead she clenched her jaw and waited. _He's got ta say somethin' eventually. Even if its just ta tell me he's not gonna tell me._

"All o' dose an' more, chere." Remy's voice startled her from her thoughts. His eyes on her were wary, tense.

Rogue fought to keep her face expressionless as a cold shiver worked its way down her spine. _All of those..._ Maybe she should have known it already. Probably, in fact. But somehow she'd always managed to convince herself that he was more of a scoundrel than anything else. Certainly nothing so dark... so ugly.

_Is that why ah want to know so much about his past?_ she wondered in a flash of insight. _Because ah'm afraid there's somebody inside him just like there is inside me? Somebody who's done horrible things? Somebody ah'll hate?_

She shook her head sharply, trying to banish the thoughts. A moment later, Remy threw his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. They sat there side by side, not looking at each other.

"Dis probably an unfair question," Remy interrupted the silence after a few minutes. "But y've had some time now t' t'ink." He turned his head, his expression evaluating. "Is dis where it ends, chere?" he asked plainly. His voice held a flat note of resignation that hurt Rogue even more deeply than the cold anger with which he'd asked the question the first time.

Tears burned her eyes and her heart seemed to fold in half as if made of nothing more than flimsy construction paper. She didn't know what to say, or if she could force herself to say anything. If she answered yes, it would mean admitting that she couldn't love him unconditionally, couldn't move past the faults and the hurts... that she preferred to live the rest of her life without him. But if she said no, then she was committing herself to accepting his life and living it with him because there was no way she could stick around and not have all of his oh-so-familiar baggage dumped squarely into her lap. The thought alone was enough to terrify her.

_Ah can't say yes, ah'm too afraid ta say no, an' there's no way he'll take maybe foh an answer._ The absurdity of her dilemma finally overrode her other thoughts. She smiled deprecatingly as she brushed the moisture from her eyelashes. "Ya right, sugah, that's an unfair question." She shrugged, feeling the first stirring of hysterical laughter rising in her gut. "Ah mean, a week ago ya were a two-bit thief an' troublemaker, an' now ya suddenly turned inta a Master Thief an' professional hitman an' a couple other things." She risked a glance in his direction. "Ya gotta give a girl time ta adjust."

Remy blinked owlishly at her, as if she'd taken him completely by surprise. His comically glazed expression snapped the last of Rogue's self control. Giggles climbed her throat, emerging in staccato bursts until she collapsed backwards on the bed and let the pain and confusion inside her vent in uncontrolled laughter. Tears squeezed from the corners of her eyes and rolled down her cheeks in a steady stream.

After a while, the laughter faded, leaving her feeling limp and weak, but more relaxed than she'd felt in a long time. She opened her eyes to find Remy leaning over her on one hand, his expression still troubled, but with a smile tickling the corners of his lips. Rogue traced the outline of his face with her eyes-- high, angled cheekbones, arching brows, demon's eyes that smoldered with a heat that could set fire to her very bones...

Her breath caught in her throat as he leaned down, all traces of his smile gone. The conversation had taken on such a sense of unreality that it didn't occur to her to be afraid of touching him, and it seemed like entirely too much effort to try to stop him when she wasn't certain she wanted to. Closing her eyes, she tilted her head back and felt his mouth cover hers, warm and incredibly sweet. She sank into his kiss, one arm wrapping tightly around his neck.

He withdrew after a while and Rogue regretfully opened her eyes. His face was only a few inches from hers, his gaze searching. She raised a hand to touch her tingling lips. "What was that foh?"

His expression remained solemn as he shrugged. "Guess I wanted t' make sure y' knew how dis Master T'ief feels about y'."

Rogue couldn't help her smile as a ball of warmth formed in her stomach and spread outward. It seemed strange that she could suddenly feel so good, even though he'd just confirmed all of her worst suspicions about himself, his past, and given her a look at the real size of the obstacles standing between them.

Sighing, she shook her head. "Remy LeBeau, whatevah am ah goin' ta do with ya?"

The devilish grin she loved so much lit his face for a moment. "Y' wan' a list, chere?" His tone was pure suggestion.

Rogue groaned and cuffed him affectionately on the shoulder. "No, ah do not." She did her best to affect unconcern as she sat up. He let her, backing up to give her a well-defined space, and Rogue suppressed a sigh. One kiss wasn't going to heal the rift between them. _But this is a step in the right direction, girl,_ she reminded herself. _Ya asked a question an' got a real answer. Maybe there's a chance, after all._


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

Bobby felt incredibly weary as he climbed the stairs to the X-Men's kitchen. Little Clarissa was going to break his heart. He could understand her not taking immediately to Diedre and himself-- they were total strangers, after all-- but to watch her toddle around the room in a two-year-old's equivalent of an exhaustive search, turning every so often to the two adults and asking "Mama? Mama?" was enough to make him want to cry. And worse yet, there was simply no way to make the little girl understand that her mother was never going to come back for her.

He walked into the kitchen and was greeted with a round of hellos from the X-Men, most of whom were squeezed into the kitchen in the hopes of getting the first pancakes to come off the griddles manned that morning by Sam and Ororo. The heavenly smell, combined with the familiar bustle of the X-Men at breakfast-time, lifted Bobby's spirits. He managed a smile as he threaded his way through the packed room toward Remy.

By the time he arrived at the Cajun's side, however, his smile had become utterly genuine. Remy noticed his gaze and grinned back. The thief held a premier seat in one of the dinette's chairs, with Rogue perched on one knee and her bare fingers tightly twined with his. In the nearly three years of their relationship, Bobby couldn't think of a single time he'd seen Rogue actually sitting _in_ Remy's lap. From the smirks the two were earning, he doubted anyone else had, either.

"Why does everything interesting around here seem to happen while I'm gone?" he asked as he slipped in beside Remy and Rogue.

"Y'all 're just unlucky, sugah," Rogue answered with a smile.

Bobby looked between them, wiggling his eyebrows for effect. "So, do I get details?"

Shadows gathered in her eyes, and Bobby's stomach sank. "Ah'd guess ya know more details than ah do, Popsicle," she answered softly.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Remy's expression disappear. Rogue straightened her shoulders, glancing briefly at Remy before returning her gaze to Bobby. "But, one step at a time, right, sugah?"

Bobby wasn't certain who the question was intended for, so he simply nodded at the same time Remy uttered a soft "Oui, chere."

Rogue turned to look at Remy who reached up to gently stroke her back, the gesture one of pure, simple affection. Rogue's gaze softened and Bobby breathed a sigh of relief.

Remy tossed him a curious glance, which he answered in signs rather than aloud. _I was afraid you two were permanently... broken_. The hand language had a limited vocabulary, but Bobby decided the word expressed his meaning remarkably well.

Remy's eyebrows quirked in an expression of pain that disappeared immediately, but he flicked Bobby a simple, _Me, too_ in reply.

"So, what are you two whispering about?" Elizabeth leaned across the table, her conspiratorial gaze split between Bobby and Remy. At her words, Scott looked over at them, his expression narrowing.

"More secrets, Remy?"

An uncomfortable silence enveloped the room. Remy stiffened and turned slowly to look at Scott, unmistakable anger in his eyes. Even Betsy seemed taken aback by what she'd started. She sat back in her chair and looked between the two men.

"Was a private conversation." Remy's gaze slid to Betsy, who shrugged apologetically, before returning his attention to Scott. "Y' got a problem wit' dat?"

Jean laid a forestalling hand on her husband's arm, smiling wanly through the nausea obvious on her face. "Why, yes. I thought we telepaths were the only ones allowed to hold private conferences."

Scott looked over at her in surprise at the tart comment, which drew scattered chuckles from the X-Men.

"She's got a point there, Fearless," Logan commented with a wink for Jean.

Scott shook his head sourly as the tension in the room dissipated.

"So, what's our next target?" Logan asked Scott, apparently returning to an earlier topic.

Scott took a sip of his coffee and Bobby could see him settling into what he'd privately dubbed Scott's "commander mode". It was a little odd, perhaps, how very similar that was to the state of concentration Remy had taught Bobby as a thief. Scott just had a different focus.

"We haven't been able to pinpoint a useful weakness in the Sentinels' biotechnology, so it doesn't make sense to go after them or their manufacturing centers until we know how to effectively cripple them. And, we simply don't have the raw power to take them down in a fight." Scott frowned. "So, the best choice right now is to try to interfere with their power supply."

"The refueling centers are heavily guarded." Bishop crossed his arms over his chest.

Scott nodded. "Yes, particularly against aerial assault and high-energy weapons. What they may not be able to counter so well is a small, lightly-armed force carrying enough explosives to send their fuel depot sky-high."

Bobby stared at Scott in surprise as Logan chuckled. "Yer talkin' sabotage."

Looking somewhat uncomfortable, Scott nodded. "I don't see that we have any other choice."

There was an expectant pause before Ororo spoke. "We will need a significant amount of explosives for such a mission."

Scott nodded again, his expression sardonic. "Luckily, we seem to have a supplier." He looked over at Gambit. The other X-Men followed suit.

Remy rolled his eyes. "I swear, I'm turnin' into an arms dealer," he told Bobby in an undertone.

Bobby grinned. The Guild was still completing contracts despite OZT. Remy had just spent thirty-eight million dollars on weapons systems for the Guild. Marcus Black and his team had only gotten back the day before from Chechnya with the delivery.

Remy turned to Scott, his expression wary. "What do y' need?"

The two men regarded each other for a moment in silence, interrupted only by Scott's fingers tapping on the table. Finally, Scott's expression firmed as if he'd made a decision. "Actually, I have a list."

Remy's high brows arched in surprise as Scott fished a piece of paper out of his jeans pocket and passed it over. Rogue accepted the sheet of paper when it arrived and unfolded it, pursing her lips as she quickly scanned through the contents. "Quite a list, sugah." She glanced at Scott before returning her gaze to the paper. "Fifteen pounds o' plastique with fuses and timers, a case o' HK high-energy rifles with additional power paks, night vision equipment, synchronized GPS trackers with scrambled upload and military precision--"

"Gon' have t' steal dose," Remy commented.

"-- high-tensile wire grappling equipment, harnesses--" Rogue went on, "base jump chutes--" She began to chuckle. "This sounds like fun."

"It's not a game, Rogue."

Rogue gave Scott an odd look. "'Course not, sugah." Schooling her expression, she finished reading off the list for Remy, then handed him the paper. Remy took it and turned toward Scott, watching him expectantly.

"Is there anything there you can't get?" Scott asked him.

Remy shook his head. "Non. Have t' steal de trackers, like I said. Military keeps a pretty tight lid on dose t'ings still." He shrugged. "When do y' wan' dem?"

"As soon as you can manage it without taking any unnecessary risks."

Remy cocked his head, studying Scott. "An' y' not gon' have a problem wit' whatever I have t' do t' get a hold o' dis stuff?" His tone was faintly disbelieving.

The muscle in Scott's jaw clenched for a moment, though his flat expression never wavered. "No."

Remy fingered the slip of paper thoughtfully. "How y' plannin' t' pay f' dis?"

The senior X-Man shrugged. "That's up to you. If you can't manage it, then put your head together with Logan and Warren and anyone else on this team who has private funds."

Bobby forced himself to hold a straight face. Who would've thought Scott would ever come around? Remy was looking a little startled as well, an expression he didn't often see on the Cajun.

"Not ta rain on the parade or anythin'..." Rogue turned a severe look on Remy. "But ya ain't gonna be breakin' into any military installations ya'self. Can Bobby do it?" She cast a single glance in the X-Man's direction.

Scott gave Bobby a questioning look. And as much as he would have liked to say yes, Bobby instead shook his head. "Not without help." He didn't have enough experience yet for something like that.

Logan leaned back in his chair, tipping it onto two legs. "Is the Guild gonna be willing ta get involved?" he asked Remy.

"As I understand it, Logan," Scott didn't look at the other man, but instead stared evenly at Gambit. "The Guild will give us anything we need." He paused significantly as all attention in the room focused on himself and Remy. The challenge in his gaze was unmistakable. "Isn't that right... Guildmaster?"

Bobby sucked in his breath as Remy stared at the X-Men's field leader. Scott knew. Somehow, he'd figured it out. Bobby resisted the temptation to shake his head. No one had ever accused Scott Summers of being stupid. Occasionally obtuse, maybe, but never stupid.

After a minute, a slow grin spread over Remy's face. He gave Scott a wry nod of acknowledgement. "Oui."

Satisfaction flickered across Scott's features. He took a deep breath. "Well, now that the cards are all out on the table, so to speak, do we have a deal?" To Bobby's surprise, he held out his hand.

Nudging a stunned Rogue off his knee, Remy stood and accepted the handshake. "Deal," he answered.

#-#-#-#

"_Guildmaster?_" The word was a squeak of outrage from Rogue.

Scott watched with great interest as Remy's face closed in on itself, becoming painfully wary. "I tol' you it was complicated." He turned to look at Rogue. "Y' already knew I had responsibilities in de Guild I couldn' walk away from."

"That ain't quite the same thing as bein' _Guildmaster_, sugah." Her green eyes were filled with reproach.

Remy shrugged. "Details."

Scott saw the anger flash in her eyes and felt a completely unexpected stab of sympathy for the couple.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to start a fight here," he injected before he could consider the words.

Remy's gaze snapped to his, utterly bewildered, and Scott had to stifle a smile. He could remember any number of times when he would have given his right arm to be able to throw Gambit that far off balance. It felt good, he had to admit, as had seeing Gambit's look of shock when he'd called him by his Guild title. He grinned to himself. It had taken him several days to come to terms with that particularly unpleasant bit of truth once he'd figured it out, but Gambit didn't need to know that.

Gambit laughed raggedly, as if he couldn't quite believe his ears. "Ain' your fault, Cyke." He waved the apology away, and sank into his chair.

Anything Scott might have said was lost in the sound of a loud car engine gunning up the street, and then the piercing squeal of tires just outside the house. In an instant, every person in the room was on alert, weapons drawn if they carried them. Bishop ducked through the kitchen doorway, headed for the front windows. He was only halfway there when a figure burst through the front door, skidding to a stop with her hand still on the doorknob. She took in the rifle aimed directly at her midriff without reaction and turned to Scott.

Scott stared at her in surprise. "Mystique?"

"Mama?" Rogue stepped up beside Scott.

Mystique spared her daughter a short glance. Her unnatural blue skin was streaked with sweat, her red hair wild.

"The Sentinels are on their way here, right now." The words were clipped, terse with strain.

The bottom dropped out of Scott's stomach. "How long?" He'd been afraid of something like this happening, ever since they'd used the Blackbird to help the thieves land that plane. And though he didn't trust Mystique, he couldn't think of any reason for her to risk herself out in the open unless the threat was real.

"Three, four minutes. They're already in the air."

Scott nodded his understanding and grabbed hold of the fear that wanted to leap up and choke him. "All right. Then we go out through the tunnels--"

"No!" Mystique shook her head emphatically. "They're expecting that. They've been specially armed with cluster bombs to collapse the sewers if you go underground."

"How do you know that?" Scott eyed her suspiciously.

Mystique gave him a scathing look. "I haven't spent ten years at the Pentagon for nothing. Now move! Get your people out of here!"

For Scott, everything suddenly snapped into focus. Their only means of getting away from the house were the sewers, which led to the Blackbird, and the two very ordinary cars parked outside by the curb. The cars had never been intended as anything but basic transportation. They were too slow to outrun Sentinels and completely unarmed. The X-Men's only protection was the fact that OZT hadn't known where they were.

Scott didn't hesitate. "Bishop, Cannonball, Storm, get the heavy weapons from downstairs. We're going to have to cover our retreat. Wolverine, Psylock, outside. You're lookouts. Gambit--" He turned to find the thief standing beside him, cell phone to his ear. "I need a miracle. Get us some kind of transportation out of here."

Gambit nodded. "Helicopters 're on dere way. Eight minutes, give or take." The thief turned to Bobby. "Upstairs-- m' laptop an' de tools."

Bobby nodded once and was gone, sprinting up the stairs.

Scott didn't spend any time wondering how or where Gambit could get helicopters on such short notice, despite the fact that he couldn't have had them less than a week earlier or he, and by extension the Guild, wouldn't have needed the Blackbird. A short ways away, Mystique threw the Cajun a sharp, inquisitive look.

Trained by years of combat, the X-Men took to the street, everything but survival forgotten. They formed a loose phalanx, the three tripod-mounted heavy cannon spread out to provide the maximum field of fire. The others filled in the gaps with lighter weapons, mainly laser rifles and rocket launchers. He let his gaze linger just for a moment on Jean, then forced himself to look way.

Angel grabbed one of the rocket launchers and nodded to Scott. "I'll give you whatever air support I can, Cyclops."

Scott watched in surprise as he turned and started off down the road at an ungainly, lumbering run, his wings unfurling like streamers. When he'd built some speed, the huge white pinions snapped open. With a last lunge, Warren rose into the air with powerful strokes. Something inside Scott soared with him, buoyed by the indomitable will of the X-Men.

"What d' y' know? He can still fly." Standing beside him, Gambit seemed thoroughly bemused.

"Focus, Gambit," Scott snapped at him. "How long on those helicopters?"

Gambit threw him a sharp look. "Four minutes."

"Here they come!" someone shouted.

Scott spun to see four dark dots on the horizon that swelled rapidly to become Sentinels flying low over the houses. The three X-Men on the cannons opened up as soon as the Sentinels came in range, forcing them to peel off from their original attack vector. Each cannon tracked a Sentinel, with the remaining X-Men concentrating fire on the fourth. One of the Sentinels flew nearly over their heads, scattering laser beams.

Scott saw Jean go down as if it were a scene from a nightmare. Her shriek of pain drilled through him as she collapsed and lay still. One of the cannons swung around, hammering the Sentinel that had hit her with bursts of red fire as it flew past.

"_Jean!_" A hand grabbed Scott's arm, holding him back as he tried to lunge toward her.

"Non!" Gambit kept a grim hold on him with one hand and maintained a steady stream of laser fire with the rifle in the other.

It took only that moment for the soldier in Scott to wrest control from the husband. He had to get his team out alive first. The familiar whomping sound of helicopter blades filled the air as four missiles streaked over their heads. Angel darted and dove between the white contrails, adding his own destruction. Scott turned to see three helicopters racing toward them. The two in the lead were narrow gunships, their angular, armor-plated noses flashing strobe-like with laser fire. The third was a Russian troop carrier, distinctive for its double-decker configuration.

"X-Men, fall back!" Scott bawled over the horrendous machine noise as the carrier descended toward the street behind him. He saw Beast scoop Jean up, bounding across the cratered street in huge leaps. Firing off a last rocket, Angel folded his wings and dove toward them, backwinging just outside the circle of the helicopter's blades. He dropped heavily to the ground as the main group of retreating X-Men reached them. The three manning the cannons stayed in their places, providing support fire for the helicopters that darted around the Sentinels like angry bees.

Scott took stock of the team as they passed him. Sam was nearly unconscious, half-supported, half-carried by Bishop. A large red stain spread across his thigh. Storm bled freely from a deep cut across her forehead, covering her face in scarlet. The wound didn't seem to be slowing her however. Mystique looked to be injured as well, though Scott didn't get a good look. And Jean... Jean lay limp in Hank's arms, her neck, shoulder and chest stained red. Scott could hear the scary, wet rasp of her breathing.

The three X-Men manning the cannons finally abandoned their positions, sprinting toward the carrier. One of the Sentinels evaded its pursuer and flew after them, tearing up chunks of blacktop as it rained its store of cluster bombs around them. Rogue went down in a cloud of cement dust and fire, but when the smoke cleared, she was rolling to her feet, coughing as she ran.

Scott jumped into the helicopter, grabbing the safety straps near the door. He leaned out to fire at the closest Sentinel. As the last of the X-Men climbed aboard, he could hear Gambit yelling at the pilot to take off. With a stomach-churning lurch, they began to rise, wheeling away as soon as they'd made enough altitude to clear the trees.

A short ways away, one of the Sentinels exploded midair. The other three turned to pursue them. Scott twisted to look for Gambit.

"Where are we going?" he yelled over the noise of the blades.

Gambit leaned toward him, a headset pressed to one ear. "De chopper's gon' drop y' off near Wall Street," he yelled back. "Thieves'll meet y' dere. Split de team into small groups, an' each group'll be guided t' a safe rendezvous point by a different route."

Scott nodded his understanding. "What about you?"

Gambit's red gaze was steady. "I'm gon' take Jean an' Hank an' go straight in t' de med center, if we c'n buy a clear space from dese Sentinels. She's de only one hurt bad." Scott looked involuntarily toward his wife as Gambit turned to Hank. "Beast, how far c'n y' free jump wit'out hurtin' y'self?"

Hank looked up from the large hand he held pressed against the wound in Jean's chest. His blue eyes flicked from Gambit to Scott and back again. "Fifty, maybe sixty feet," he answered.

Gambit nodded. "I c'n do about sixty." He turned to speak into the headset. The helicopter abruptly changed courses, sending Scott's stomach climbing into his throat. Nearby explosions rocked them as the Sentinels continued their barrage.

Then, suddenly, they were in the city, flying the steel and glass canyons between the buildings. The sound of the rotors echoed back to them from the skyscrapers, drowning out everything else. Scott leaned out the door, trying to look behind them as their transport rose sharply. For a moment he caught a glimpse of one of the gunships, but he didn't see any Sentinels.

Their helicopter crested the top of one of the skyscrapers and hovered there, less than five feet from the roof. Gambit gestured to Beast and the two clambered to the open door.

"What happened to our sixty foot jump?" Hank asked as he cradled Jean against his chest.

In response, Gambit leaned out, firing his laser rifle across the roof below. The assault shredded a large steel cover directly beneath them, revealing a six foot by six foot shaft that fell away into darkness inside the building.

"Is de cover clear?" Gambit shouted to Hank.

Hank nodded. "Yes."

"Den go! I'll follow y'."

Hank nodded and leapt into that gaping maw, taking Scott's heart with him. Remy stepped up to the edge of the doorway. Scott stopped him with one hand. "Take good care of her," he told Remy, the words half promise, half threat.

Remy simply nodded, and strangely enough, that was enough for Scott. Without a backward glance, the thief stepped out of the helicopter and dropped into the shaft, disappearing from view.

The helicopter swung around, diving for the narrow spaces between the buildings as soon as Gambit was gone. Scott leaned back against the cool metal wall of the cabin, feeling the vibration all the way into his bones. They weren't out of the woods yet, but with every thump of the rotor blades, he thanked God for their lives... and for the Thieves Guild.


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

Scott was among the last to arrive at the rendezvous. It was nothing but a natural stone cavern somewhere beneath the city. Electric lights were bolted to the walls, their cables disappearing quickly into the darkness at the edges of the cavern. Water trickled across rock somewhere in the distance, making Scott painfully aware of how thirsty he was. He ignored his body's complaints, however, as he took mental stock of his team. To his immense relief, they were all there– dirty and battered but alive, and apparently no worse than when he'd last seen them. Sam sat with his back propped against Psylocke's leg while he adjusted the makeshift bandage on his thigh. The others were all on their feet. The thieves who had served as their guides stood a little ways away, talking in low voices and keeping a wary eye on the X-Men. Bobby stood with the thieves. He looked to be trying to reassure them, though about what Scott couldn't guess.

Not too much later, Gambit arrived with a group of men trailing him, their expressions ranging from dismayed and angry, to furious. From the immediate, respectful way the thieves stepped aside, Scott decided these must be men of significant authority in the Guild. Unfortunately, he didn't know anything about the thieves' political structure other than being fairly certain Gambit held the top slot.

Gambit was limping. From the tightness of his expression Scott guessed he was in a fair amount of pain. But other than the limp, he gave no indication as he came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the cavern, his red gaze sweeping over the X-Men as if he were checking to make sure they were all there.

"Absolutely not!" One of the men behind Remy said, apparently continuing a previous argument. He was a fairly young man, with sharp features and a superior air that made Scott immediately wary. "This is outrageous! I don't know _who_ you think you are--!"

Gambit pivoted on his heel to glare at the dark haired man. "I _think_ I am Guildmaster and you will address me as such." His tone was cold and hard. "Is that clear?"

The man closed his jaw with a snap, his eyes furious. "Yes, Guildmaster." His mouth worked silently as he ground his teeth.

"It is a clear violation of the law, you must admit, Guildmaster." An older man seated in a wheelchair said mildly. Remy turned to look at him, and Scott was surprised by how much the man reminded him of Charles Xavier. It wasn't really his appearance or even the chair, but instead something about the man's demeanor that brought the Professor to mind.

"In the interest of saving a life, I can understand it, though not approve." The man's gaze moved across the X-Men, studying them. "But this is unacceptable." The look he turned on Gambit was stern, almost authoritative.

Remy's expression didn't change. "Lettin' OZT slaughter de Guild is unacceptable," he answered flatly.

Out of the corner of his eye, Scott saw Bobby moving cautiously across the room toward the X-Men, skirting the arguing men widely. He stepped up beside Scott, his attention focused on the Gambit.

"What's going on?" Scott asked him out of the corner of his mouth. He, too, did not want to take his attention off the argument even for a moment.

"Bringing anyone who isn't part of the Guild into Guild territory is against the laws," Bobby told him, his voice pitched low.

"Who are these people?"

"The Guild Council. They're a bit like the Senate."

"And the Guildmaster is the President?"

Bobby's gaze narrowed. "Sort of, though he's got more power than that."

Scott didn't reply as Gambit began to speak again.

"De question, gentlemen, is what it's gon' take to bring OZT down. Y' should all know me well enough by now t' know I don' hold wit' breakin' Guild law." He pinned several members of the group with his stare. "But we're talkin' 'bout de survival o' de Guild."

"I still don't see how these... people will help protect the Guild." This time, a man standing to Remy's left spoke. His voice was surprisingly soft, though his expression was wary. "Even talking about this here is dangerous." He jerked his head toward the X-Men.

Gambit smiled briefly, though Scott doubted it was sincere. "Den maybe I should make some introductions," he said.

Scott straightened as Remy gestured toward him, his expression completely unreadable. "Members o' de Guild council, may I present Scott Summers, better known as Cyclops, field leader of the X-Men, an' dese are his team."

Scott saw the eyes of several of the councilmen widen in shock. The soft-spoken man turned to Remy. "_The_ X-Men?" His gaze swept across the assembled mutants as if searching for something recognizable.

Scott stepped forward, his expression carefully controlled. "Yes, the X-Men," he confirmed with a nod to Remy. He understood showmanship and the need to present a strong face to the opposition. He and Gambit could discuss the thief giving away Scott's real name some other time.

Gambit crossed his arms, his attention still on the Guild men. "Y' say de Guild simply don' have de power an' skills t' put together a strike team t' go after Bastion an' OZT." He recaptured their attention instantly, and the X-Men's as well. "I agree. Information gatherin' we c'n do. Hit an' run, we c'n do. A toe t' toe throw down wit' de Sentinels is out o' de question, n'est-ce pas?"

Scott saw where he was going-- where he'd been going all along-- and was grudgingly impressed by what Gambit was trying to do.

Gambit waved one hand toward the X-Men. "Well, dere's y' strike force," he told the men.

"What good are they without their powers?" Scott bristled at the snide question from a red-haired man who hadn't before spoken. He held out a hand to forestall Wolverine whose low growl was clearly audible in the tense room.

Gambit smiled dryly. "Y'd be surprised. However, dat's where de Guild comes in, non?"

The man in the wheelchair held up a hand for silence and received it. The authority he carried impressed the X-Men's leader.

"Guildmaster," he said quietly, but with a note of warning Scott recognized. "I am reminding myself that we chose you to lead this Guild specifically because you have demonstrated many times your willingness to do whatever is necessary to protect it... including breaking the laws you have sworn to obey."

Scott could see the impact of his words in Gambit's eyes as the mutant nodded. "An' I've paid de price each time," he answered solemnly. Beside Scott, Bobby paled, an expression of pain flitting across his face before disappearing, and he wondered just what that statement might be referring to.

The man glanced at the X-Men, then back to Remy. "You're asking us to take a very big risk, with no assurance other than your word that these people won't betray the Guild."

Scott couldn't read it from his expression, but he had the strangest feeling Remy was truly hurt by that.

Gambit's face remained a flat mask. "I'm askin' de Guild t' make an alliance, f' de good of all. De X-Men are in de business o' protectin' mutants, not betrayin' dem."

"Will they swear blood oath to that?" The man's gaze centered on Scott.

"This is absurd!" The sharp-faced man who had protested before stepped forward. His expression, Scott suspected, was supposed to be one of righteous indignation, but it was overshadowed by triumph. "With all due respect, Master LaSalle." The speaker nodded, and his silky smile made Scott's spine prickle. "This cannot be allowed. Even the Guildmaster can't toss aside centuries of Guild law to suit himself! We saw the results of that with Guildmaster Tyre, did we not?"

Remy's gaze snapped to the other man's as Bobby drew a sharp breath. The man gave Remy a smug, dangerous look. "If the Guildmaster insists on this course, there will be no choice but to call him into the ring, for the good of the Guild."

The other council members looked startled by the pronouncement as the two men locked stares.

Scott glanced questioningly at the young man beside him. "Bobby--"

"Shhhh." Bobby didn't take his gaze off the thieves.

Gambit stared resolutely at the dark-haired man. "I do insist on dis course, Adrian." His voice was soft, dangerous. "An' if y' wan' call me t' de ring, dat's y' right." He turned to look at one of the other men in the group, his tone becoming businesslike. "Artur, I wan' y' t' call an' assembly f' tonight, bot' Guild and Clans-- but no children." The man raised an eyebrow at that as Remy went on. "I'll explain everyt'ing den, an' if Adrian--" He cut his gaze in the other's direction. "--or anyone else wants t' challenge me, dat will be de time t' do it."

Gambit straightened, expanding his attention to take in all the council members. "Until den, dese people need medical attention. If y' feel it's necessary, dey c'n stay in de med center under supervision until tonight."

Scott's eyes narrowed. Remy was presuming an awful lot of trust on the X-Men's part. The idea of letting his team be placed under a kind of house arrest in such an uncertain environment made his skin crawl. He could see similar thoughts reflected on the other X-Men's faces, but no one spoke. They were all looking to him to make the decision.

When none of the thieves protested, Remy nodded and turned toward Scott. "Is dat acceptable t' de X-Men?"

Scott stared at him, trying to read the other's strange, red eyes. Everything he'd thought true about Gambit had turned out to be a lie; this man in front of him was little more than a stranger. And yet, when his team's lives had hung in the balance he'd turned instinctively to Remy for the means to save them. If Jean were there, she would have told him to listen to his heart and his conscience, he thought. His heart clenched. He didn't even know for sure if she was still alive.

_Do I trust you?_ Scott asked Gambit silently. That was the crux. The answer to that question would determine what course the X-Men took from there.

Very slowly, Scott nodded. "It's acceptable."

He would have sworn he saw Gambit breathe a sigh of relief. Then his expression firmed as he turned to Mystique.

"Den dere's jus' one more t'ing."

Mystique returned his stare archly from where she leaned against Rogue. "And that would be the fact that I'm _not_ an X-Man, and you don't trust me like you trust them."

Remy almost smiled. "Do y' blame me, chere?"

"I've never betrayed you," Mystique countered. Beside her, Rogue looked between the two with a dark frown.

Remy shrugged. "It's never been in y' best interests." He paused, his gaze steady on Mystique's eerie, pupil-less one. "But y' risked y' life f' ours today, an' y' hurt. I won' send y' back out dere _if_ y' willin' t' play dis t'ing by my rules."

She cocked her head appraisingly. "Which would be...?"

"Y' never get t' see de route in or out o' where we're goin', an' y' swear an' oath on Irene's blood-- which is de only t'ing I know of dat c'n bind y'-- dat y' won' ever reveal what y' know 'bout de Guild."

Mystique stared at him for a long moment, lips pursed. Then she nodded abruptly. "Very well. You have my word, on Irene's life, and her memory. You're going to need my help."

She pulled herself painfully erect and stepped away from Rogue, a sultry, dangerous smile appearing on her lips as she approached him. "I suppose this means you're going to knock me out now." She swayed forward until they stood face to face.

"I'm in no mood f' games, Raven." Remy reached up to encircle her throat with his hands, his thumbs moving to cover the main artery feeding blood to her brain.

Mystique's hands balled into tight fists at her sides, but she didn't resist as he applied pressure.

"Pity," she said, her eyes never leaving his.

Rogue stared at them both, her green eyes full of questions as Mystique's eyelids began to flutter. The blue-skinned woman slowly sagged to the floor. Remy followed her down without releasing his hold. Scott could hear him counting the seconds under his breath.

When he was apparently satisfied, he let Mystique go and stood. He met Scott's gaze and then gestured toward the entrance through which he and the councilmen had come. "Dis way, X-Men."

#-#-#-#

Bobby sank into the empty chair beside Scott with a sigh. "How is she?"

The chairs were pulled up beside Jean's bed, which was currently covered by an oxygen tent and surrounded by carts of equipment that beeped and whirred reassuringly. Barely visible inside, Jean lay like some red-haired Sleeping Beauty waiting for her prince. She seemed strangely serene lying there, as if even a laser bolt through the lung couldn't disturb her inner equilibrium.

"Hank thinks she'll be okay." Scott ran his hands tiredly through his hair.

A strange dual beeping caught Bobby's attention. He looked over at the tangle of equipment, noting that there were two separate heart monitor traces, one of which was beating about twice as fast as the other.

"Is that the baby?" he asked, surprised. "I thought--"

Scott looked over at him with a frown.

"The newest addition to the Summers clan is doing remarkably well, all things considered." Hank's voice rumbled from behind them as he walked into the room with Dr. Lancaster.

Bobby turned to look at his long-time friend with a sense of apprehension. He'd never had a chance to ask Hank what he thought of his choice to become a thief.

Hank's blue eyes were solemn. "Hello, Bobby," he said.

Bobby couldn't summon a smile. "Hi, Hank."

Scott ignored the exchange as he gathered himself and stood. "Is it time?"

Bobby looked up at him, grateful for the distraction. "Yeah. The assembly will start in a few minutes. I'm supposed to bring the X-Men to the great hall."

With a last look at Jean, Scott turned. Bobby could see him putting his personal concerns away. His tone turned professional. "Do you know what Gambit's planning?"

Bobby frowned as he climbed to his feet. Scott's choice of words struck an uneasy chord. "No. He's been brooding for the last couple of hours." In Bobby's experience, that was a bad thing.

"Brooding?"

Bobby shrugged. "He gets like that." Though usually only when he was trying to gather up his courage for something, and Bobby was beginning to worry.

Scott nodded. "Hank, are you coming?"

The blue-furred mutant shook his head. "I'm afraid not. Someone needs to stay with Jean..."

"...and Artur Valencia specifically requested that I be there, with a medical team." Dr. Lancaster looked as concerned as Bobby felt about the upcoming assembly.

Bobby was beginning to think Remy really expected to have to settle the matter in the Blood Ring, which would be disastrous. Even if he beat Adrian soundly, it would only illuminate the fact that he was breaking Guild law and getting away with it. He couldn't see any way for Remy to get through the day without serious damage to his reputation, and by extension, his power in the Guild.

Scott accepted Dr. Lancaster's statement without comment. He gestured for Bobby to precede him and they left the room together.

Most of the X-Men and Mystique were waiting for them outside. Bobby could feel their combined stares like a physical force pushing him away. He'd known this day would eventually have to come, but he'd had no idea how much the separation would hurt. But he would forever be a thief first and an X-Man second, and now they knew it.

Taking a deep breath, he returned the gazes with as much fortitude as he could muster. "Let's go."

Bobby led them to the great hall, the cavernous amphitheater where the Guild and Clans could meet as a single group. Every seat was filled, it seemed. The noise of the crowd echoed deafeningly in the enclosed space. Bobby led the X-Men toward a set of seats that had been reserved for them near the Guildmaster's platform, which currently stood empty. Bobby looked down at the stage that took up the center of the sandy floor. Remy and the Council were all there, standing off to one side. On the other side of the stage was a tall wooden construction whose purpose Bobby didn't immediately fathom. It looked like a frame of some kind, and had manacles dangling from each corner.

Rogue noticed the direction of his gaze. "What's that foh?" she asked suspiciously.

Bobby shook his head. "I don't know." But he was dead certain he wasn't going to like it, whatever it was.

The X-Men settled quickly in their seats. Bobby was well aware of the many curious looks they were earning. He deliberately placed himself next to Rogue and was glad to see Logan sit down on her far side. The only instruction Remy had given him about this evening was to make certain he sat next to Rogue, though he'd been unwilling to explain why.

On Bobby's other side, Ororo looked around the amphitheater with great interest. A line of stitches crossed her forehead, the black thread standing out in marked contrast to her white hair. "I remember Achmed telling us about such places when I was a street thief in Cairo," she remarked. "At the time, I held hopes of gaining a place in the Guild there, and I always wondered if the stories were true."

Surprised by her reminiscence, Bobby turned to look at her. "Were they?"

She gave him a brief, troubled smile. "Yes." Her gaze drifted down toward the stage, her smile dying. "I have a very bad feeling about this, Robert."

"You and me both, 'Ro," he answered.

The speculative buzz that filled the amphitheater died away as Remy walked up to the microphone. Without a word or a gesture, the Guildmaster commanded the attention of the entire room, and Bobby found himself holding his breath in unconscious anticipation.

"Guild members an' Clansmen." Remy's voice rang in the stillness. "I'll be direct. I'm sure y' already aware dat dere are strangers in de Guild complex. Strangers _I_ brought here." He raised a hand, gesturing toward where Bobby and the other X-Men were seated. Three thousand pairs of eyes turned toward them.

"Dey are de X-Men," Remy continued as the cavern filled with murmurs and speculative voices. "An' dey are pledged t' help us bring down Operation: Zero Tolerance."

Beside Bobby, Rogue was slowly shaking her head, her expression pained.

"Rogue?" he asked her in an undertone.

She glanced over at him, her lower lip clenched between her teeth, her gaze clouded. "Ah don't know this man, Bobby." She canted her head toward the stage.

Bobby reached up to squeeze her hand sympathetically. He'd been shocked the first time he'd seen the real Remy LeBeau, too. "Yes you do," he told her. "You just didn't realize it."

He didn't have a chance to gauge Rogue's reaction as Gambit began to speak again. "I would have preferred t' make dis alliance a little less abruptly..." The Guildmaster shrugged. "Bastion didn' give us dat option. So, we live wit' it, an' we adapt."

He took a deep breath, looking out over the audience. "De Guild is strong, even in de face o' deadly opposition. OZT has proven dat. We have become what our ancestors dreamed of building-- a home, a community, a refuge in difficult times-- an not jus' f' de mutants among us, but f' all of us."

Bobby glanced down the row of X-Men, looking for their reactions to that statement. Gambit was a natural orator, and already Bobby could feel the Guild being drawn in. Most of the X-Men's expressions were thoughtful, which reassured him. Maybe they would understand after all.

"But strength is useless wit'out a means t' apply it," Remy continued, and Bobby dragged his attention back to his Guildmaster. "An' dat is where de Guild suffers, because we can't act against Zero Tolerance wit'out giving away our presence an' sacrificin' everyt'ing we've worked so hard to achieve."

The low level murmuring in the room intensified as the gathered thieves and clansmen began to understand the Guildmaster's plan.

"So dat's where de X-Men come in." For a moment, his face and voice lit with a grin. "Believe me, dey're used t' bein' on de pointy end o' de stick. Dey c'n strike where we cannot, an' dey _can_ bring Operation Zero Tolerance down." He paused significantly, his conviction sending a thrill through the room. "If we can give dem de chance."

The amphitheater exploded into a raucous babble as everyone began to speak at once. The subdued air of fear that had permeated the Guild since the plane crash had given way suddenly, replaced by intensity, an urge for action... and hope. Those seated nearest the X-Men leaned over to greet the mutants, asking dozens of different questions about how they planned to destroy OZT. Bobby couldn't help but grin at the X-Men's expressions as they tried to respond to the unexpected barrage.

But despite their renewed energy, there remained a strong undercurrent of uncertainty in the crowd. Bobby could feel it, hear it. They wanted to believe, because Remy had saved all of their lives. They knew his dedication to the Guild and they trusted him. But they were afraid because strangers always threatened the Guild's safety. The Guild survived in anonymity, kept safe by the strict laws that punished anyone who put that anonymity at risk.

Cold, sinking dread began to invade Bobby's gut. Remy seemed to sense the feelings of the people surrounding him, because raised his arms, calling for silence. The crowd noise fell away by degrees and when Remy finally lowered his hands, the room was quiet.

"De fact remains, however, dat dis alliance-- no matter how beneficial-- violates de most basic principles of de Guild, an' de laws I swore on oath before each o' you t' uphold." Remy's voice had grown somber. The council members were watching him with surprised, confused expressions, making Bobby think they knew as little about what Remy was doing as the rest of them. All but Artur. Bobby's gut twisted another notch. Artur Valencia stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his expression painfully closed.

Remy paused. Bobby could see him gathering himself. "It's been said dat y' c'n judge the depth of a man's beliefs by what he's willing t' sacrifice for dem." A ripple of reaction ran through the X-Men. The Professor had made that statement many times.

Remy raised a hand to his heart. "_I_ believe de only way we will ever live wit'out fear again is t' work wit' de X-Men t' destroy OZT." He looked out over the silent crowd. "I also believe dat de law is de key t' our survival. It exists f' a purpose an' cannot be broken, o' everyt'ing de Guild stands for will crumble t' dust."

Bobby's brow dipped as he chewed on the contradictory statements. On stage, Remy turned toward the gathered councilmen. "Artur."

Artur nodded, then stooped to pick something up out of the shadows near his feet. He gripped the dark coil in one hand as he walked forward, stopping just behind the Guildmaster. Remy turned back to the crowd.

"De law defines punishment f' bringing strangers into de Guild complex." The dark loop in Artur's hand uncoiled, and Bobby was unable to contain his dismay. The braided leather whip trailed across the floor at Artur's feet like a snake.

In the amphitheater, the silence was so complete Bobby could hear the hiss of his own breath. Remy looked down for just a moment then raised his head to face the crowd, his expression resolved.

"De Guildmaster has spoken. Guild law stands."

With that, he stepped back from the microphone and with quick motions stripped off his suit jacket, dropping it unceremoniously on the ground, and began unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt.

"Is he out o' his _mind_?" Rogue demanded, starting to rise. Bobby slapped his hand over her wrist where it rested on the arm of her chair, curling his fingers under the armrest's edges to create a kind of manacle. Every muscle in his body had gone rigid in reaction to his deep-seated horror, but he knew he had to keep Rogue under control.

"Sit _down_, Rogue," he snapped at her, and saw Logan grab her other arm.

All around them, the Guild and Clans shifted in their seats, the noise rising and falling in uneasy waves as they watched Artur step in front of the microphone. To his credit, the thief looked deeply disturbed, but his soft voice held no hesitation as he spoke.

"When no harm to the Guild is intended or incurred, the penalty for violating Guild anonymity is twenty lashes."

At his words, the huge cavern exploded into chaos with every person there expressing their feelings, either for or against, with loud fervor. Bobby tightened his grip on Rogue's wrist as the pain in his gut intensified.

"X-Men, hold!" Scott's authoritative bark stopped several of the team in their tracks. Bobby was gratified to realize the X-Men were set to jump to Gambit's defense, Guild or no Guild.

Scott's expression was firm. "Everyone, sit down. We can't interfere."

Bobby felt a swell of gratitude and respect for the other man as the X-Men backed up, their expressions uncertain. Rogue struggled against the two men who held her, her protests lost in the din. Bobby ignored her as much as he could and concentrated on the stage. Remy had taken off his shirt and had walked over to the wooden frame, where he was calmly allowing Adrian Tyre to clamp his wrists into the manacles. Bobby was a little surprised that it was Adrian doing it, but then he realized he shouldn't be. Remy never gave up an advantage, and after this there would be no way for the thief to challenge his decision without making a fool of himself. If Adrian's glare were any indicator, the other man knew it as well.

Nauseated, Bobby watched as Adrian finished and Artur stepped into place. Once again, the amphitheater fell silent. Bobby could hear the braided leather whispering across the stage floor as Artur adjusted his grip.

Bobby flinched violently at the first crack of the whip. The sound echoed through the cavern like a gunshot, harsh and frightening. When Bobby could look again he saw a long line of blood drawn across Remy's skin. The muscles in Gambit's shoulders and back were corded in pain as Artur readied the lash a second time.

Bobby wanted to scream. Once more, Remy was paying a price in blood to do what was right and to protect his Guild. Bobby could feel the bones of Rogue's wrist grinding beneath his palm as he squeezed the chair arms until the edges dug painfully into his fingers. He couldn't interfere in this, not without destroying everything Remy hoped to accomplish. But next time...

_I swear, Remy, on my honor as a thief... never again._ _Never again._

He repeated the vow to himself every time the whip bit into Gambit's back, watching silently as the man who was brother, mentor and friend endured each one. And by the time the final blow fell, the promise had been etched into his soul, never to be erased.


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Rogue followed Diedre through the twisting tunnels of the Guild complex, feeling as if all eyes were on her. There was some truth to it. People in the halls did stop to watch her as she passed. Some nodded in friendly greeting, some simply stared, and some were decidedly cool, but absolutely _everyone_ noticed her. And if that weren't enough, brushing elbows with that many strangers made her jittery even though she knew her powers were inactive.

And so, when they reached the particular doorway that was their objective, Rogue breathed a silent sigh of relief. The door was short enough she would have to stoop a little to walk through, but since everything in the complex seemed to have been chiseled out of solid rock, she could hardly blame the constructors for not making the doorway any larger than they had to. It was painted a cheerful yellow and had the name "Black" stenciled on its surface.

"This is Marcus and Andrea's home," Diedre said unnecessarily as she knocked. Remy had apparently assigned Diedre the task of finding room for the X-Men in the crowded complex, but rather than rearranging anything to give the mutants a space of their own she had found thief families willing to take each of them in. Rogue didn't like it. It spread the X-Men out, made them vulnerable. Unfortunately, she suspected that was the point and to her dismay, Scott had gone along without a complaint. _We're committed to trusting Gambit at this point_, was the only explanation the senior X-Man had given when she protested.

Rogue shivered and pushed the thought away. Her trust for Gambit had shattered some time during the past twenty-four hours, leaving her heart in a shambles. The man she'd seen up on that stage was no one she knew, but she understood instinctively that he was the real Remy LeBeau, or at least as close to him as she'd ever seen. At the moment, she had absolutely no idea what she was going to do about it.

The door opened to reveal a woman about Rogue's height, with dark hair that fell almost to her waist and warm brown eyes that lit with interest when she looked at Rogue. She was heavier than the X-woman and extremely pregnant.

She smiled. "Hello, you must be Rogue. I'm Andrea Black." She held out her hand and Rogue was obliged to shake it.

"Nice ta meet ya," Rogue answered automatically, fighting not to flinch from the sensation of Andrea's palm against her own.

"Please, come in." Andrea stepped back, graceful despite her bulging stomach, to let Rogue pass. She greeted Diedre with a hug as the blond woman followed Rogue inside.

The Black's home was a small cavern divided up into several living areas by heavy drapes hung from wires strung across the uneven ceiling. The area where Rogue stood appeared to be a combination living/dining area with a small couch and an even smaller table surrounded by four mismatched chairs. Beyond it, through a gap in the hangings she could see what looked to be the Black's bedroom and, possibly, a nursery. She didn't see any signs of a kitchen, though there was another wooden door at the back of the cavern that looked like it might lead to another room.

Rogue struggled for something to say. By normal standards, it was little more than a hovel, despite being neatly kept. Not that Rogue cared, but polite chitchat didn't come easily to her. _Where's that Southern charm, gal?_ she chided herself.

Just as she was about to speak, a man walked around the corner of one of the hangings. He stopped in his tracks when he spied Rogue, an expression of pure surprise on his face. Rogue stared back in equal shock.

"You!" They exclaimed in unison. It hadn't occurred to Rogue that the thief she'd seen that night with Remy would be a member of the New York Guild.

Diedre laughed while Andrea looked between the thief, who Rogue surmised must be her husband, and Rogue. "I take it you two have met already?" Her voice was curious, but not particularly alarmed.

Diedre gestured toward the man. "Marcus Black, this is Rogue. Rogue, Marcus." She turned to look at Andrea with a surprisingly gleeful expression on her delicate face. "Remember that time Marc came home with a story about he and the Guildmaster running into a flying woman?" She gestured toward Rogue.

Andrea chuckled, arching one eyebrow at Rogue. "That was you? Well, I'm doubly glad to meet you now."

Marcus, too, was laughing quietly as he came forward and held out his hand. "And I'm glad to make your acquaintance as well... under friendlier circumstances this time." He shook Rogue's hand, then put an arm around his wife's shoulders. "Welcome to our home."

"Ah..." Rogue swallowed and tried again. "Thank ya." She had no idea how to react. She didn't know these people but they seemed to know her, and they displayed an open affection and unquestioning acceptance for her that shocked the young mutant to her core. She was used to earning approval... earning friendship... by dint of hard work, perseverance and sometimes, pure stubbornness. How many people had she ever met who actually liked her on sight? Would they feel the same way if they knew her powers, her past?

"Where should ah put mah stuff?" she asked after a moment. Rogue carried a small bag slung over her shoulder. In it were some basic toiletries and a single change of clothes, courtesy of the Thieves Guild. They were all the possessions she had in the world.

"Oh, in here." Andrea led Rogue into the little room she'd guessed was a nursery. It did indeed hold several items of baby paraphernalia, including two bassinets, but they were all stacked against one wall. A mattress lay on the floor on the far side of the room, neatly made up with pink sheets and a brightly patterned quilt. A shelf was bolted to the rock wall over the bed and held a small plant in a clay pot, and an empty plastic tote on the floor looked like it was intended to serve as a dresser. It was surprisingly homey.

Andrea sighed. "It's not much, I'm afraid."

"Oh no, it's fine," Rogue hastened to reassure her. No matter how mixed her feelings about the entire situation, she couldn't begrudge the Blacks' generosity.

Andrea snapped her fingers. "I almost forgot. Here, this is for you." She bent down awkwardly to open the purple and green tote, emerging with a floppy-eared stuffed rabbit. "Diedre said you collected stuffed animals and had them all over your bedroom." She shrugged, seeming a little embarrassed. "So this is to start a new collection with."

Touched by the simple gesture, Rogue accepted the rabbit, hugging it instinctively. "Thank ya." She couldn't quite meet Andrea's eyes and after a moment she turned and walked forward into the room.

"I'll just leave you to get yourself settled," Andrea said from behind her. "If you need anything, let me know."

"Ah will." Behind her, Rogue heard the other woman move away and then her voice picked up as she and Diedre talked out in the living room. Rogue tried to ignore them as she slowly sank onto the mattress.

_Well, sugah, this is home foh now. Better get used ta it._ She smoothed the quilt with her fingertips, relishing the feel of the soft cotton. She wasn't certain how long she sat there, wrapped in her thoughts, but it seemed like only a minute later when Diedre appeared at the opening in the drapes.

"Rogue? I don't mean to rush you, but we need to be going. The Guildmaster said he wanted to see you as soon as you were settled."

Rogue's stomach clenched. Part of her wanted to cross her arms and tell Diedre to inform the _Guildmaster_ that if he wanted to talk to her he could very well come find her himself, thank you very much. The rest of her was simply afraid. Of him. For him. The last time she'd seen him had been in the amphitheater, with his back shredded by the whip and his own insane conviction about laws she didn't understand. He'd been too exhausted then, too hurt, even to stand by himself but Bobby and Logan wouldn't let her go to him. Now, she wasn't certain she wanted to.

"Ah'm comin'." She set her bag and the rabbit on the bed and stood. Saying no wouldn't do her any good. If she did refuse, Remy probably _would_ come looking for her and then she'd have to deal with the guilt of making him go to that effort when he was injured.

She and Diedre walked the entire way in silence. Rogue soon found herself standing before a polished wood door. Unlike the rest of the doors she'd seen, this one looked old and expensive. Diedre raised a hand and knocked.

A rich, familiar voice called for them to enter. Diedre opened the door and went in. Rogue followed more slowly and found herself in, of all things, a fancy office. Remy sat in a high-backed leather chair behind a huge desk scattered with computers, papers and schematics. One large drawing had been spread out and was weighted at the corners to keep it flat. Rogue noticed that one of the corners was being held down by a loaded nine millimeter pistol. The Glock Remy had almost shot her with.

Remy himself was dressed impeccably in a stylish black suit with a dark burgundy shirt beneath. _So the blood won't show_, a professional voice inside Rogue concluded. His face was pale and drawn, but the eyes that tracked her as she came in were as keen as always.

"T'ank you, Diedre," Remy said without taking his gaze off Rogue.

Diedre nodded. "Do you want me to try to work through some more of your email?"

Remy momentarily shifted his attention to the tiny blond woman. "Oui, chere. If Colonel Rasmutov hasn' answered me yet about dose spares, I need t' give him a call."

Diedre walked over to the far edge of the monstrous desk and unplugged one of two laptops from its cables. She tucked the slim computer under her arm and quickly left, closing the heavy door behind her. The click of the latch sounded horribly final. Rogue turned to find Remy watching her, his expression unreadable.

"How're ya feelin', sugah?" she asked weakly, trying to break the silence.

The aristocratic eyebrows twitched in the equivalent of a shrug. "Been worse." She noticed that he did not move his body at all, not even his head. His gaze moved from Rogue to the chairs pulled up in front of the desk. "Have a seat."

Unnerved by the utter strangeness of the situation, Rogue obeyed, perching on the edge of one of the plush chairs. "Ah nevah imagined ya havin' an office," she commented as she looked around.

For a moment Remy's reserve cracked and the man she knew peeked mischievously out at her from behind the stranger's mask. "Me neither," he agreed. "I still get de creepy-crawlies every time I sit down in dis chair."

Rogue bit her lip to keep from smiling as the knot in her gut loosened a notch. That sounded like the Remy she knew, too.

_Well_, she thought as the silence began to thicken again. _Might as well dive straight in._

"So, what exactly does the Guildmaster do, sugah?"

Remy's expression sharpened as if she'd asked an unexpected question, but his face gave away no more than that. He was silent for several moments.

"De Guildmaster is responsible f' directin' de Guild." A momentary smile lit his face. "Dat's helpful, I know. Let's see... De Guildmaster is, first an' foremost, responsible f' seein' t' de Guild's safety-- keepin' track o' various government investigations t' make sure de Guild ain' compromised an' makin' sure his t'ieves obey de rules so dose government agencies won' have anyt'ing t' investigate. De Guildmaster is also responsible f' decidin' what kind an how many contracts de Guild takes, an' who works which ones... an' den figures out how t' spend or invest de Guild's share o' de profits. An' on top o' dat, de Guildmaster is de final authority in matters o' Guild law an' is held accountable to all de ot'er Guildmasters f' de behavior of everyone under his leadership."

Rogue stared into the eerie red-on-black eyes, searching for something she recognized. Not only was that the longest, most straightforward answer she'd ever received from him, but it was delivered with a comfortable ease that set the hairs on the back of her neck to prickling. Remy always resisted giving away information. Getting an explanation out of him was like wrestling a greased pig to the ground. To have him respond openly to a question only brought home to her the difference between this man and the one she thought she'd fallen in love with.

"How long've ya been doin' this?" she finally asked and received another motionless shrug.

"Not very long. I've been Guildmaster f' a little less dan four months. Beyond dat… I've been a Master T'ief f' six years an' been a member o' de Guild f' nearly twelve."

Rogue looked down at her hands. More volunteered information. Details she hadn't even asked for. "Why are ya suddenly tellin' me all this?"

"Because I can."

Rogue jerked her head up at the longing in his voice. His gaze burned into her, begging her to believe, to accept. Rogue didn't want to. He'd been lying to her since the very beginning, and she no longer trusted his motives.

"So, now that ah've seen this precious Guild o' yours, ya figure ya can tell me all the things you've been lyin' about foh the last four years an' that'll make everything all right?" She didn't intend for the words to come out as scathingly as they did, and she saw Remy wince.

"No." He shifted in his chair, the first motion Rogue had seen. And as angry as she was with him, her hands still knotted into fists at her sides to see the pain that clouded his features at even such a small movement.

Her anger dimmed. "Ya ought ta be in bed, sugah." They'd been arguing so long she no longer cared if this particular round got settled today or tomorrow if there were more important things to take care of first. As far as she was concerned, his health took priority. She knew from experience that any argument they dropped would eventually resurface.

Remy sighed. "Maybe, chere. But first, we need t' talk. I can' afford t' let y' walk out o' here wit'out y' understandin' some basic t'ings about how de Guild works."

Rogue stiffened at his tone as much as his words. "Excuse me?" She didn't like anyone making implied threats, but particularly people she cared for, who were supposed to be friends. "If ya think ya can stop me, go right ahead." She stood.

"Dis is about keepin' de X-Men alive, Rogue." The cold words stopped her more thoroughly than any physical force could have.

She turned to look at him and was surprised to see real fear in his eyes. Her own worries about putting the X-Men into the Guild's hands redoubled in that instant and her body responded with rush of adrenaline. "Ah thought the X-Men had ya _personal_ guarantee o' safety as long as we're workin' together ta bring OZT down." She couldn't keep the suspicion out of her voice.

He didn't react. "As long as I'm firmly in control o' dis Guild, y' got not'ing t' worry about."

Rogue did not immediately take up the unspoken "but" that dangled on the end of the sentence. She was instead looking at the man across from her with new eyes and realizing she'd met a number of people just like him in the past. Like other heads of crime syndicates, heads of private security forces, even heads of governments for that matter, this was a man who had a rather tenuous hold on a great deal of power. And like them, he would survive only as long as he stayed on top because there were always people underneath who would happily see him dead to further their own ambitions. That constant wariness and looking over the shoulder was one of the reasons Rogue had no desire to go back to that kind of life. She bit her lip. She'd found trust with the X-Men, a safe place where she could relax without wondering who was going to try to doublecross her next. She would not surrender that.

Rogue's heart filled with dismay to realize how completely, horribly incompatible Remy's life was with her own. _He tried ta tell me, ah just didn't want ta believe it._ She drew a deep breath, fighting for calm. _Think, girl. Keep ya mind on business. Ya can deal with the heartbreak later. _

She found she was shaking and pressed her palms against her thighs to keep her hands still. "So ya need mah help ta hold ya political enemies at bay so ya can, in turn, keep the X-Men alive an' well, an' maybe knock Bastion down a few pegs in the process."

Her analysis won her a guarded smile. "Oui, chere."

Rogue sat down in her chair, this time leaning back against the cushions and crossing her legs. "All right, ah'm listenin'."

Remy closed his eyes for a moment, seeming to age years in that instant. Rogue was struck by the realization that she didn't have the faintest notion how old he actually was. She'd never asked. Perhaps more than anything else, that brought home to her just how willfully blind she'd been where Remy was concerned. Bobby's words from a few weeks earlier floated through her mind. _Weren't you curious?_ he'd asked her about her paramour.

Rogue snorted in derision as she answered the memory-Bobby, _No, sugah, ah wasn't. Ah didn't want ta know because ah was so desperate ta hold onto the possibility o' love that ah couldn't bear ta go lookin' f' anythin' that might shatter mah illusions_. To her surprise, she felt a weight lift from her shoulders with that understanding. She felt clear-headed, suddenly, as if her self-deceit was a layer of gauze clouding her inner vision that had finally been stripped away. _What an idiot ah've been! Ah know perfectly well that pretendin' somethin' is a certain way doesn't make it that way_. She glanced down at her feet, sighing. _But ah wanted it so much..._

When she looked up, Remy was watching her curiously. She shook her head. "Just talk, sugah."

He nodded fractionally. "Oui." For the first time in her life, she watched him settle in for a long explanation.

"In practice, chere, dere 're only two ways to become part o' de Guild." He paused. "O' de Clans, actually. 'Guild' is a word dat gets used interchangeably. At de moment, I mean de sum total o' de Guild, not jus' de t'ieves. Does dat make sense?"

Rogue nodded. She'd gotten a sense of the dual meaning of the word already.

"De first is by becomin' a t'ief. De trainin' process is bot' harsh enough an' thorough enough dat by de time an apprentice takes his oath t' de Guild, it's mostly a formality. If dere was any doubt about his loyalty, he'd never get t' dat point."

Rogue nodded again, trying to keep her expression neutral. She had very mixed feelings about Bobby's obvious loyalty to the thieves above the X-Men, but in principle she understood.

"De second is by marriage." Rogue's gaze jumped involuntarily to his as her heart stuttered a beat, but he continued as if unaware of her reaction. "O' possibly adoption, but right now I'm only talkin' 'bout how an adult can come into de Guild."

His words recalled something he'd said several weeks earlier. Rogue's head began to swim as she considered the implications. Was that what he'd meant when he said he was trying to get her to come _in_ to the Thieves Guild? She wondered in sudden terror. Except that Remy LeBeau had never once used the word "marriage" with her, not even in passing. Her heart began to pound.

"Is that what our fightin' has all been about?" she finally demanded. "Some kind o' twisted Guild courtin' ritual?"

His expression closed in on itself. "If by dat y' mean, did I have hopes o' someday marryin' y'? ...den, oui." The words were painfully flat.

Rogue's breath froze in her chest, as much from the fact that he'd used the past tense as from the admission itself. "An' now?"

Remy looked away for a moment, and when he turned back, all trace of personal emotion had disappeared. "Guild laws are _very_ strict when it comes t' outsiders findin' out about de Guild. Dis--" He flicked his shoulders to indicate the raw wounds across his back, "is as mild as de punishment gets f' violatin' Guild anonymity. Most o' de time, de only resolution is death, bot' f' de guildmember an' f' whoever dey told."

He paused as if waiting for her to protest, but when she remained silent, he went on. "De only way t' bring somebody in t' de Guild is t'rough a pretty long an' difficult process. Jus' like wit' an apprentice, a prospective spouse can' get anywhere near de Guild until dere loyalty is pretty well assured. De reason is because, in de end, if dat person learns about de Guild an' den decides dey don' want anyt'ing t' do wit' it, dey end up dead."

"That's ridiculous!" Personal considerations aside, the concept was ludicrous. "What right do you have to _kill_ people just because they don't want to get mixed up in the Guild?"

Remy's eyes narrowed. "Morally? None. Dat's why we're so careful. But the hard truth is dat de Guilds have t' be dat strict, even if de cost is murderin' a few innocents."

"Ya wrong, sugah." Rogue shook her head in unconscious denial. "There's no excuse foh murder, not evah." It chilled her to the bone to hear him say such a thing, even though she'd always known he didn't really share the X-Men's ideals.

"Am I?" Anger lit his features. "Den let me give y' some statistics an' you tell me what de solution is." He didn't move, but she could almost hear him ticking points off on his fingers. "One, dere are twenty-four Guilds worldwide, wit' a combined population of approximately fifty thousand people. Only 'bout eight thousand o' dose are t'ieves, de rest are Clan-- men, women an' children."

His stare bored into hers. "Two, de mutant birthrate in de Guild is averagin' one in ten in dis generation an' most o' de estimates I've seen say it'll be one in _four_ in less dan twenty years. Right now, pretty much everyone carries de X-factor as a latent, whether dey're a mutant or not."

Rogue gaped at him. Hank's best estimate, using Cerebro, was that mutant births were something like one in one hundred thousand, and fewer than one in ten thousand carried the X-factor. Her mind started doing the math without her consciously willing it to, and the answer she came up with was disturbing.

"But that would mean nearly ten percent o' the mutants on the planet are in the Guild." A Guild that only had eight members for every million people on Earth. The mutant population density was staggering.

"Oui, chere. De Guilds were one o' de original hidin' places f' early mutants an' dey been crossbreeding f' centuries." Remy nodded cautiously. "Can y' imagine what would happen if de world found out?"

Rogue pressed her lips together in a thin line to hide her horror as her imagination conjured images for her. Yes, she could very well imagine what would happen. The world was already afraid of mutants. Bastion had proven that beyond a shadow of a doubt. But if the general population, let alone any of the governments, discovered the existence of an organized group of mutants the size of the Guild...

She expelled her breath in a long, slow sigh. "Ah get ya point." She shook her head. "Ah don't like it, an' ah can't entirely say ah agree, but ah understand."

Remy looked relieved. "Dat's all I c'n ask."

Rogue dithered for a moment, then decided to press on. "So what does all this have ta do with me, specifically, sugah?" _Other than the fact that ah_ think _ya've said ya want ta marry me if ah could stomach becomin' part o' the Thieves Guild, which ah can't. _She wasn't sure whether that thought made her want to laugh or cry.

Remy watched her, his eerie eyes giving her the impression he could see right through her. But if he could read her confused thoughts, he decided not to mention it.

"What do y' t'ink would happen if any o' my enemies here found out dat one o' de X-Men I-- very illegally, mind-- brought into de Guild also happened t' be a woman I was seriously involved wit'?" he asked.

Rogue balled her hands into fists. Her chest ached with every word he spoke. Everything she'd so desperately wanted to hear him say but never had during the past three years was suddenly being thrown across a desk at her as if it were any other business conversation. She hated it even as she ate it up, and didn't know which response was the correct one. And unfortunately, her spinning emotions couldn't keep her mind from answering the question.

"They'd say ya trumped up all this cooperation business as a way ta bring..." Try as she might, Rogue couldn't separate herself and pretend he was talking about some other woman. "...ta bring _me_ into the Guild without makin' me take oaths o' jump through any o' the other hoops, which ah ain't willin' ta do."

She watched as her words extinguished the last flicker of hope in his eyes. He nodded slowly, wincing at the motion. "Dat's exactly what dey'd say, an' it's close enough t' de truth dat it would work. I can' keep de Guild under control if I'm battlin' halfway legitimate charges o' violatin' Guild anonymity f' my personal benefit. "

"What do ya mean, halfway legitimate?"

"What do y' t'ink I mean?" The expression in his eyes was incredibly tired. "Anyone wit' eyes an' half a brain can figure out how I feel 'bout you. I don' know how t' hide it." He spread the fingers of one hand in a gesture of pure frustration. "An' it feels _so _good t' sit here an tell y' de truth, chere, even if I hate where we have t' go wit' it." He shook his head sharply, blinking, and Rogue was stunned to realize he was fighting tears.

When he'd gotten his reaction under control, he looked back at her. "De only way I know t' protect m'self an' de X-Men is t' play de deniability game. De only people who can say f' sure dat we were ever involved are you, me, de Drakes an' de X-Men."

Rogue sank back in her chair, clasping one hand across her mouth as the logic hit her. Combining the Guild and the X-Men was dangerous, but made for a powerful alliance that gave them a far better chance of taking on Bastion and OZT. That she couldn't argue, having seen a few examples of what the thieves could do. But to keep the X-Men safe from the Guild's internal politics meant the death of any chance she and Remy might ever have had to be together. Not only that, but she would have to deny that there had ever been anything between them, and get the X-Men to do the same.

In some way, she'd already come to the conclusion that their plans for the future were totally incompatible, that _eventually_ they'd have to admit it wouldn't work. But to strip away both the present and the past as well hurt more than she thought possible.

Very slowly, Rogue levered herself to her feet, wrapping her arms about her waist. She felt cold all the way through.

"Ah understand, sugah," was all she could think of to say. She started to turn away.

"Rogue."

Rogue held her breath as she looked back at him. His gaze on her was as gentle and intimate as a caress. "I love you."

She fought to keep her knees from buckling. "Ah love you, too, sugah." A tear found its way onto her cheek. She wiped it brusquely away. "It was a nice dream while it lasted, wasn't it, Remy?"

His smile was raw, his voice little more than a whisper. "Oui, chere. I'm... sorry t'ings couldn' be different."

"Me, too."

After that, there was nothing left for Rogue to do but leave.

#-#-#-#

Bobby walked into the med center expecting to find the kind of austere, purposeful silence that permeated Hank's lab at the mansion. It wasn't until the noise hit him that he realized the med center and its staff catered to the population equivalent of a small town. The small reception area was an ocean of boisterous or wailing children in which the nurse's station was the only island. Bobby made his way over to that bastion and leaned over the edge to give the attendant his best smile.

She was a young woman, pretty in an overly made-up way, and smiled back at him. Bobby was doubly pleased when the light of recognition went on in her eyes. He had no interest outside of Diedre, but her response certainly did his ego good.

"I'm looking for Hank McCoy," Bobby told her. "Big, blue furry guy." He held up a hand to illustrate Hank's height.

She giggled. "Of course, Mr. Drake. Go on in. Dr. McCoy is probably seeing a patient, but someone will be able to help you find him."

Bobby thanked her, then made his way through the double doors that led into the med center proper. His good humor gave way to apprehension as he did, and his smile faded. A passing nurse looked up curiously at him. He stopped her with an outstretched hand.

"Do you know where I can find Dr. McCoy?"

She frowned, looking him over, but then nodded back down the hallway from which she'd come. "Examination room two."

Bobby found the room and paused outside the closed door. He could hear Hank's bass rumble coming from within, interspersed with a child's voice and a woman's. After a few minutes, the door opened and Hank walked out, clipboard in hand. He stopped short when he saw Bobby but then recovered, closing the door carefully behind him.

"Well, Bobby, to what do I owe the honor of this most salutary visit?"

It wasn't as warm a welcome Bobby was hoping for, but he summoned a smile anyway.

"Hi, Hank. I thought I'd stop by to see if you were free for lunch."

Hank glanced at his watch, brow furrowing. "Lunch? Is it that time already?"

Bobby chuckled, feeling a little more at ease. Some things never changed. "They have been remembering to feed you, haven't they?"

Hank grinned, showing teeth. "Indubitably. At least, I think so. Of course, I would be the last person to realize it if they hadn't." He shrugged and stepped aside as the door behind him opened. A woman and her young son came out. The boy sported an orange wrist cast and was covered with a set of scrapes that made Bobby think he'd had a rather rude meeting with the unyielding stone of the cavern. He grinned and waved at Hank as his mother ushered him out.

Hank returned the wave, flashing blue-black claws as he did so. Bobby reflected that this might very well be the only place in the world where no one would notice. Hank watched the boy for a moment then turned to Bobby.

"I have a couple more patients to see, but after that I shall put myself at your disposal." He salaamed over the top of his clipboard. "Give me twenty minutes."

It turned out to be more like forty, but Bobby didn't complain. It was enough to have Hank's company, and as they made their way into the huge communal kitchen that served most of the Guild's needs, the two men talked about Hank's involvement in the med center and Bobby's new daughter as if they were completely ordinary events. People paused to watch them pass, the murmurs echoing with Hank's name.

Hank finally turned to Bobby with a bemused expression. "Do you know, I do believe this is the first time in my life people have stared at me simply because I'm something of a celebrity... rather than because I'm large, blue, furry and something of a celebrity."

Bobby chuckled. "It does seem kinda odd until you get used to it." It had taken him a while to grow comfortable with the Guild's open acceptance of mutants, until he realized just how many of them there were.

Hank stopped abruptly and turned to look at him, his gaze searching. "Are you happy here, Bobby? Have you found what you wanted?"

The sadness in his friend's childlike blue eyes drove straight into Bobby's heart. Taking a deep breath, he answered honestly. "I have, Hank. This is where I belong. It's... it's my place in the Dream." He spread his hands, unable to explain any better than that the convictions that had led him to become a thief. His voice fell. "I just wish it didn't have to cost me the X-Men."

Hank cocked his head. "The X-Men will always be there for you."

"I know. But I don't think they'll ever understand." Bobby was sometimes dismayed by how much the X-Men's approval meant to him.

Hank pulled off his spectacles and began to clean them. "You might be surprised," he said without looking up.

Bobby's chest tightened. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Hank frowned and resettled his glasses on his nose. "Charles once referred to the X-Men as the 'rock-stars of the mutant equality movement'. He... believed... that high-profile teams like the X-Men would mold and influence the culture as a whole, but that the real work of changing peoples' opinions about mutants would have to happen at the grass-roots level." Hank shook his head. "Though I must admit I did not properly appreciate the obvious fact that those grass-roots would, of necessity, contain a large criminal element." He smiled. "As any gardener can tell you, roots require dirt if they are to flourish."

Hank paused and his tone took on a reflective quality. "I was always surprised by Charles' willingness-- even eagerness-- to accept the most minimally reformed criminals into the X-Men. Now I begin to see what he was searching for."

Bobby gaped at him and in return Hank gave him a sad, almost wistful smile. "Truly, Bobby, did you think I would condemn you for choosing the life you have?" he asked gently.

Pure, sweet relief rushed through the young thief as he ducked his head. "I... yeah, I guess I did," Bobby admitted, feeling somewhat ashamed for ever doubting his friend.

He looked up and smiled. "Thanks, Blue."

"You are most welcome." Hank's grin was guileless as he made a show of looking around the cafeteria. "Now, you mentioned lunch?"


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

What changes a few weeks could bring. Scott mentally shook his head. It had been five weeks now-- almost six-- and the changes sometimes seemed staggering. When the X-Men had first entered the thieves' world, they'd been battered, off-balance, and sadly ineffective against OZT. Now, they-- and the thieves backing them-- were starting to resemble a serious resistance movement. Despite his many misgivings, Scott was proud of that.

At that moment, he, Logan, Mystique, Bishop, Marcus and a female thief named Jasmine surrounded one end of Gambit's monstrous desk, while Gambit himself stood at the opposite end, deep in conversation with several members of his Guild. Schematics of OZT's largest fuel dump this side of Washington D.C. covered the polished surface, as Scott's group banged their collective heads against the site's security.

"We have ta hit at least four o' these fuel bunkers ta make the trip worthwhile," Wolverine said, tapping the spot with one gnarled finger. "But I can't see us gettin' more than two. We can't get far enough inside before bein' spotted." His voice had grown even scratchier with his body's accelerated aging. Beast had explained that Wolverine's body had grown so accustomed to the healing factor that it was now effectively in a kind of withdrawal. The aging was simply part of the process of adapting to a normal level of cellular function. Several of the X-Men were suffering lesser cases of withdrawal from their own powers as well. The good news was that Logan's body had already begun to normalize, so he wasn't likely to age too much further. In fact, he might even regress.

"What do ya think, Cyke?"

Scott jerked his attention back to the discussion. They'd had several successes against the Sentinels' fuel depots already, blowing them sky-high and leaving little behind but a crater. Unfortunately, Bastion wasn't stupid. It was getting harder and the number of Prime Sentinels kept increasing. Their ability to disguise themselves as normal human beings until triggered made them tremendously dangerous. Privately, Scott was very surprised they hadn't lost anyone yet and the thought alone chilled him. In the past, the X-Men had always headed into a conflict with the expectation of survival. Scott wasn't certain how much longer that mindset could last.

"I agree." He nodded to Logan. "It's not worth the risk if we don't seriously hamper the Sentinels' operation for at least a little while. OZT still has logistics problems, mostly because Bastion's trying to build his own infrastructure instead of using what's already there. If we can curtail the Sentinels' flights, we'll hopefully buy ourselves enough clear sky to do more significant damage. I can't stress how important these missions are--"

The group gathered around the desk simply stared at him. They'd heard the speech before and Scott felt a flash of embarrassment. "Sorry, preaching to the choir again."

Logan grinned at that and Marcus, who was cheerful enough for any three people, laughed outright.

"What if we came through here?" Jasmine-- Jazz-- pointed to a spot on the depot's perimeter. She hadn't so much as blinked at Scott's attempt at levity. Tall, dark-haired and full of Latin sensuality when it suited her, Jazz could also be as severe as Scott on a bad day. Bobby's explanation was that it came from trying too hard to be "one of the boys". Female thieves were highly unusual and, Scott was beginning to understand, not particularly welcomed.

Jazz went on, unaware of Scott's musings. "We can bypass the electrified fence and the alarm circuits pretty easily. If we cut through at this point we'd be out of sight of the guard towers, so all we'd have to worry about are the roaming patrols."

Scott frowned. He really didn't like Jazz, for a number of reasons. Her attitude, for one—the woman carried the largest chip on her shoulder he'd ever seen. She was also the most avaricious thief he'd met. He knew that sounded odd, and Jean had laughed the first time he'd said it aloud, but it was true. Scott could literally _see _the greedy gleam in her eyes whenever any kind of wealth was discussed. And to top it all off, she had developed some rather obvious intentions toward Gambit, though why _that _bothered him Scott wasn't quite sure. Sympathy for Rogue? Or maybe just because he loathed gold diggers. But, she did have a point. He turned to Bishop, who'd gone with the scouting group. The big man had a surprising number of thief skills hidden up his sleeve, even if he was ashamed of them.

"How regular are the patrols?"

Bishop didn't look up from the large, highly detailed map of the fuel depot and its surroundings. "The area is covered by three patrols," he explained. "Each made up of two men. Two of the patrols pass through areas that would give them line of sight to the insertion point-- here, here, here and here." He used a pencil to show the three routes used by the roaming patrols, then pointed to various places on those routes where buildings and other structures would not screen the assault team, marking each with an "X". "The timing of the routes is erratic, but they always follow the same paths."

Mystique tapped her fingertips against her lips, her pupil-less gaze intent. "It can be done." Scott watched her warily. Mystique's methods were brutally direct and, unfortunately, all too effective for him to dismiss. She'd been doing this kind of thing for years, the only difference being that now they were going after people who had no legitimate claim to power in the United States. Scott couldn't stomach using violence against legitimate authority, which to his thinking meant they needed to get Bastion and OZT before they _became_ legitimate. Until then it was war. After than point it became insurrection, something Scott would not foster.

Mystique touched the map with the tip of a long red fingernail. "Put a sniper here, on this little knoll, and another one over here... in a tree probably. I'd have to do some quick scouting when I got there, but it shouldn't be that hard to find a usable spot."

Scott stifled a resigned sigh. When they'd lost their powers they'd also lost the luxury of not killing their enemies. Sniping had the added benefit of letting them take out some of the enemy without the risk that one might be an un-metamorphed Sentinel. In his heart of hearts Scott hated it, but he'd run out of reasons to refuse. "What about the timing?"

Mystique shrugged. "We'll just have to take what we get."

"I'm gonna be goin' through the fence, so who do ya suggest fer the second sniper?" Logan asked.

"Rogue."

Logan arched a skeptical eyebrow. "She ain't gonna like that idea."

"My daughter will do what I tell her."

Scott kept his face expressionless. The ongoing battle between Rogue and her foster mother wasn't really any of his business. He just wished Mystique wouldn't go so far out of her way to rub Rogue's nose in her return to her former way of life. Rogue's skills were an asset to the team, but the more Mystique pushed the harder she fought using them. Scott had debated asking Remy to say something to Mystique, but hadn't yet convinced himself that it would do any good.

He shot a quick glance toward the man standing a couple of feet away. Gambit stood near the opposite end of the desk, one hip leaned against the edge, arms crossed, as he listened to a trio of guildmembers rattle on about some internal issue. They were complaining about space... again. The X-Men's field leader was more than a little surprised by how much patience Gambit demonstrated with the never ending struggle to fit the needs of an entire population into such cramped quarters. Still, after being dragged away from the mission planning for the third time that morning, Scott could tell the other man's patience was wearing thin.

"There's simply no room for what you want to do," Will Sandberg said for perhaps the fourth time that Scott had noticed. The councilman's comment was directed toward a gray-haired woman Scott didn't know.

"There has to be room _somewhere_," the woman replied severely. "Educating our children is too important to stop just because there isn't space."

"The apprentices are continuing their classes--"

"That's just the apprentices." The gray-haired woman cut him off with a scowl. "What about the rest?"

Scott let his awareness of the conversation fall away as Bobby walked into the crowded office, followed by Diedre and Rogue. The Drakes had become something of Gambit's personal assistants, helping him with everything from his email to acting as go-betweens between the Guild and the X-Men. It was odd. Bobby didn't properly belong in either the Guild's upper echelons or the X-Men's leadership, but he invariably found a quiet, unassuming place in both groups. And since only a very select few of the thieves knew of Gambit's vision handicap, Scott could understand why the other wasn't trying to discourage his presence.

On the other hand, Scott had no idea what Rogue was doing there. She was carrying a thin manila folder with several pages from a legal pad poking out from the edges.

Rogue trailed a few steps behind the Drakes as they approached Gambit. Bobby gave Scott a friendly nod in greeting as he passed. Rogue's gaze stayed fixed on the conversation going on at the far end of the desk. She didn't even glance in his direction. Or Mystique's for that matter.

Bobby waited quietly until Gambit acknowledged him.

"What's up, Bobby?" The Cajun turned away from the ongoing argument with a thin but seemingly genuine smile.

Bobby returned the smile with a much brighter one. "Hey, boss. You wanted to know when those satellite pictures were developed."

Scott perked up his ears. One of the thieves had gotten photos of some military satellite pictures of the eastern seaboard. Hopefully they would give the new resistance better knowledge of where OZT's facilities were.

Gambit had a similar reaction. He pivoted smartly to face Bobby, expression sharpening.

"But, Guildmaster--" Will Sandberg protested behind him. "This issue hasn't been resolved yet."

Scott caught a flash of annoyance that disappeared as Gambit turned back to Will. Sandberg was a council member and not to be dismissed lightly, no matter how much Scott was sure the Guildmaster longed to. Though he'd never admit it, Scott took perverse pleasure in seeing Gambit bogged down in mundane details. It seemed a fitting revenge for all those years he'd spent lounging by the mansion's pool, pretending to be a wastrel while Scott was dealing with the like for the X-Men.

"Find some space t' lay dose out, Bobby," Gambit said without turning. "We'll get t' dem in a bit."

"Sure, boss." Bobby took his packet of photos and left the desk, which was completely buried already, and instead went to the coffee table beside a leather sofa on the far side of the office.

Gambit focused on the guildmembers and now Rogue, who had gone to stand beside the gray haired woman and was talking with her about the contents of the manila folder.

"Rosalind?" Gambit asked the woman after a moment.

Rosalind smiled briefly at Rogue then turned. "Guildmaster, you know Andrea Black has been helping me try to find a solution to this problem—"

"An' since she's got two new babies ta deal with, ah've been doin' some o' the legwork t' help her out," Rogue interjected. A little too quickly, Scott thought, judging by how Jazz's gaze abruptly narrowed. Though neither Gambit nor Rogue ever gave any indication of any special feelings for each other, Jazz, at least, recognized a threat in Rogue. Scott wondered how much of a problem it might turn out to be. He understood why Gambit and Rogue had decided to end their relationship and hide its existence, but doubted such a tactic could work in the long run.

"We think we may have come up with a solution," Rosalind continued, apparently unperturbed by the interruption. "Rogue just brought me the inventory for the storeroom we've been talking about—" She handed the sheets of legal paper to Gambit who made a credible show of reading them. "None of these things are used very frequently. Right now they're all spread across the floor and sorted into little piles, but they could all just as easily be stacked up against the wall. It wouldn't be a lot of space, but it would be enough to get started."

"Unfortunately, you're misinformed, Ms. Tanner." Sandberg's voice was cool. He and the man beside him had turned so that they squared off against Rosalind and Rogue, with Gambit in the middle. "That storeroom contains a lot of hardware that gets used regularly for repairs and construction, including plumbing supplies and electrical cables. There's still about thirty percent of the living quarters down here that don't have running water or bathroom facilities. It would slow down the retrofit effort tremendously to 'stack' those supplies." The man beside Sandberg was nodding in a knowing way, making Scott wonder if he was a foreman or something similar.

"Why would it slow things down?" Rogue asked.

Will paused for a long moment as if debating whether to answer. The guildmembers were such sticklers for their rules that Scott wouldn't have been too surprised if he'd acted like Rogue didn't exist. She wasn't Guild, after all, and had no real business getting involved in Guild matters. Scott found it all kind of ludicrous, though he'd been doing his best not to offend anyone with his opinions. They needed the Guild too much to let anything damage the fragile relationship the two groups were developing.

The foreman ended up answering before Sandberg. "Well, ma'am, the first reason is because my people have been using those supplies for months. They're used to where things are so they don't waste time looking around. But there's also the fact that we need access to that stuff 'round the clock. We'd be going in and out all the time while you were trying to have classes." He shrugged. "I've got kids. I want them to get a good education, but I know they wouldn't pay attention to any teacher with people coming and going all the time."

"Hmm." Rogue twined a lock of hair around her finger. "Sounds like ya need that place left alone." Rosalind flashed her a betrayed look, which Rogue ignored. She met the foreman's eyes. "Could we maybe consolidate somethin' else, though? There's an awful lot o' wall space goin' unused there." She waved a hand toward the sheets Gambit still held.

The foreman frowned thoughtfully. "Maybe. I'll have to think about it, check with my crews."

Rogue glanced at Rosalind, then Sandberg. "That seem reasonable t' y'all?" She got a round of hesitant nods.

"Guildmaster?" Sandberg asked, his tone betraying his reluctance.

Gambit just shrugged. "Dis is your area, Will. Do whatever y' t'ink is best. I know I c'n count on de ladies here t' scream if dey don' t'ink it's a good enough solution." He indicated Rogue and Rosalind with a wave.

Sandberg nodded, still not pleased. "Yes, Guildmaster."

The foursome quickly left with Rogue and the foreman deep in discussion. Shaking his head, Gambit rejoined the group gathered around the far end of the desk.

"So, what'd I miss?"

Clearing his throat, Scott got his head back in the planning. He quickly outlined the route they'd been discussing. Gambit, he knew, had the schematics memorized since he couldn't see them, and Scott was careful to make sure he gave the Cajun enough descriptive clues to keep the other from making a fatal mistake. Jazz almost certainly didn't know about his loss of vision, and Mystique might or might not be aware.

Gambit raised an eyebrow at the mention of snipers, and even more so at Rogue's name. "You t'ink she'll agree?" he asked Mystique.

"She'll do it," Mystique assured him. "We wouldn't take anyone out unless they looked like they'd spotted the insertion team. Even Rogue won't have a problem with that."

Scott had his doubts, but they'd find out soon enough. Gambit just shrugged. "Well, if she won', I c'n give Belle a call. She wouldn' have any problem doin' a contract job, even f' me."

Scott resisted the desire to bury his head in his hands. Remy could talk about hiring assassins from his ex-wife with exquisite nonchalance, but the thought alone gave Scott the shivers. He pushed his reaction aside. His feelings on the subject really didn't matter any more.

"Anyone else see any major flaws with this plan?" Heads shook and Scott allowed himself a sigh. "All right, then we'll start working it up. You all know your jobs. Let's see if we can't put this together inside a week."

The group broke up as people headed out to their separate tasks. Gambit gave Scott a lopsided grin after everyone else had gone, as if he understood how morally complicated the other man found his position.

"Y' let me know what y' need?" he asked.

Scott chuckled sourly. "That goes without saying."

Together they turned and made their way across the room to where Bobby waited.

#-#-#-#

_Well, ya certainly did it this time, gal. Made a right fool o' yohself. _She hadn't so much as spoken to Remy in two weeks and what did she do at her first opportunity? Behaved like a stupid teenager with a crush. She was pretty sure she'd managed to hide her pounding heart and weak knees, but even if no one else had noticed, _she _knew.

_How am ah ever gonna be able ta talk ta him? Every time ah get around him, ah'm afraid everyone's going ta look at me an' _know. _Ah guess it's true what they say about the ones ya can't have. All that time we had ta be together an' all ah did was push him away. Now we can't be together an' ah'm fallin' all over mahself just ta be in the same room with him._

Rogue strode through the stone halls of the Guild complex, lost in her thoughts. Her feet took her unerringly to the Black's door even so, and she pushed it open without thought. Had she been less preoccupied she would have stopped to listen first, but as it was she simply yanked it open and was greeted with the piercing wails of a newborn emanating from the back of the tiny apartment. Andrea sat in a rocking chair in the main room, nursing one of her sons while the other one gave voice to his opinion about having to wait.

Andrea's gaze snapped to Rogue the moment she opened the door, her gaze full of frazzled relief. "Rogue! I'm so glad you're home. Could you _please_ go get Jacob?"

Rogue froze in a kind of pure terror that dwarfed anything she'd ever felt on any mission. This was why she always listened at the door before going in. "Ah… sure." She didn't bother trying to smile. Andrea knew how much she disliked any contact with the infants.

Striding into the Black's bedroom, Rogue looked down into the nearest bassinet at the wizened little baby who lay there, his face an angry red from the force of his cries. No, it wasn't that she disliked contact with Jacob and Daniel, it was really because she _liked_ it and wanted the same for herself. And because she could never have it. The truth tore at her every time she tucked one of these tiny babies into her arms.

Carefully, Rogue picked Jacob up. His screaming cut off abruptly as she settled him in her arms, his head turning instinctively toward her breast.

"Sorry, hon. Ain't nothin' there foh ya." Smiling a little at the joke, she walked back out to the main room. She stood, rocking Jacob in her arms, as Andrea finished feeding his brother.

"So how'd it go with Will?" Andrea asked as she disengaged her son and offered the drowsing infant to Rogue.

They traded babies and Rogue put Daniel on her shoulder for a burp. "Well enough, ah suppose," she answered. "Ah swear that man doesn't care anything about helpin' folks, just about bein' right. It's a good thing he had his construction chief there. It turns out we can't use the storeroom like we hoped, but ah think the chief'll be able to clear out somethin' else. He seemed ta really like the idea."

"We?" Andrea cocked her head to the side with an innocent smile.

Rogue rolled her eyes. "The Guild." She pointed an accusing finger at the other woman. "Ya know what ah mean, so don't argue semantics with me."

Andrea chuckled, but then changed the subject. "Marc says he's hearing some more rumblings among the thieves… the Guildmaster's too aggressive about OZT, spending too much money, taking too many chances with Guild lives, that sort of thing." Her tone belied the seriousness of the words.

Rogue frowned. "Adrian?" She and Scott were the two main conduits of information between the thieves who supported Gambit politically and the X-Men, who everyone understood would come down squarely on the Guildmaster's side in any real conflict. The official exchanges of information took place most often between the thieves' council and Scott, Ororo and Bobby, but that was business. Rogue's involvement was with the people who worked for Gambit's benefit primarily without his knowledge (so they thought) or consent. Rogue did it because she'd promised, however obliquely, to watch Remy's back during that awful conversation in his office. It was the one and only time they'd ever really _talked_-- without lies, without pretenses, and the reality that had slapped her so hard in the face that day still made her throat ache if she thought about it.

Andrea shrugged in response to the question. "Who else? The voices aren't very loud right now, but the first time something goes seriously wrong they're going to be shouting."

"If somethin' goes _seriously_ wrong, sugah, we're all gonna be too dead ta care."

Andrea gave her a reproving look. "The Guildmaster needs to know what people are saying."

Rogue thought back to their conversation once more and sighed. "Ah'd bet he already knows, but ah'll talk t' Bobby." Gambit, she was sure, knew all too well who supported the alliance with the X-Men and who did not. The biggest problem was that the X-Men didn't answer to anyone in the Guild except possibly Gambit himself, and that made them a personal weapon for the Guildmaster to use against his own people if he chose. It was no wonder so many guildmembers resented their presence. She couldn't help a small, grim smile. _But ah've never known Remy t' gamble unless the stakes were dangerously high._

She looked over at Andrea. "Anythin' else?"

Andrea shook her head. "Not that I've heard." Then, business concluded, she switched topics without pausing for breath. "Did I tell you who my sister went out with last night?"

#-#-#-#

Jubilation Lee woke to darkness. And pain. She knew from the feel of the cold metal beneath her and the smell of the place that she was back in her cell. It was obviously night time, for the lights were off. The absolute blackness hovered around her like a palpable thing, heavy and dense. Needles of pain shot down her arms from shoulder to elbow with every breath, making her dizzy.

Jubilee didn't know what they were doing to her, bit by bit and piece by piece, but she could guess. She could feel the lines of fresh surgical scars on her arms to match those elsewhere. Her hair had finally started growing back in to cover the tracks across her skull. Her head was covered by about a half-inch of wiry black hair that felt like velvet when she ran her hands across it.

She stifled a sob. _They're turning me into a monster. _A voice in the back of her mind cried out for help from the one person she truly trusted.

_Wolverine, help me! Where are you? I need you!_

No gruff, familiar voice answered her out of the darkness. Jubilee closed her eyes, silent tears escaping. She was so tired. Tired of being afraid. Tired of hurting.

She knew she was beaten. The cocky mall rat façade had long since crumbled to dust. She would have shown a very different face to anyone who saw her now, but no one ever came. She hadn't seen a living soul since Bastion had tortured the details of the X-Mansion's security system from her.

In some ways, the loneliness was even worse than the shame of having betrayed her friends.


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

Adrian Tyre paced a short track through the stone cubbyhole that passed for his living room. He ignored the trickle of moisture that darkened one wall and the fungal smell that accompanied it. So, too, he ignored the harsh glare from the utility lights bolted to the stone above him in place of a normal fixture. They were signs of how far the thieves had fallen and of the level of persecution they faced. Even he, as a member of the council, had nothing. Oh, his investments and off-shore accounts were secure. Just inaccessible.

Why in the world had the council voted LeBeau into the Guildmaster's seat? Adrian wondered. The man's golden tongue, no doubt. More so than when he was elected, the councilmembers were mesmerized by LeBeau's pretty promises. LeBeau's noble intentions had infected the Guild like a plague. They were thieves, not heroes. The goals were wealth, power and self-determination, not the betterment of mankind. LeBeau, for some reason, didn't understand that.

The strange part was that Adrian agreed with the Guildmaster's actions, though not his rationale. Michael would have done a better job, of course, but at least LeBeau was taking decisive action. The Guild should have solidified its position long before OZT came along to strip their mutant birthright away. Michael would have made certain of it. LeBeau, on the other hand, would empower the Guild only so long as it took to destroy OZT. Then they would slink back into the shadows of obscurity, never to realize the _true_ wealth that could be theirs.

A knock interrupted Adrian's bitter thoughts. He went to the door.

Carson McCall stood in the hallway, looking as tired as Adrian felt. Adrian summoned a smile for his longtime friend. No matter what Carson did or did not bring with him, he knew the other had been working hard in the attempt. He needed to show proper appreciation.

"Come in. Have a seat." Adrian waved to the couches that formed a tight group in his living room. "Can I get you a drink?"

"Thanks. The usual." Carson dropped into a seat and laid his head back.

Adrian went to a tiny wet bar in the corner. He fixed scotch and soda for Carson, straight gin for himself. Returning, he handed Carson's drink to him then sat down on the opposite sofa.

Carson pulled a slim folder from inside his jacket, tossing it down on the coffee table. "This is everything I could find."

Adrian cocked his head. "Is that good or bad?"

He shrugged. "Some of both."

Adrian glanced at his friend. Physically, the two were opposites. Carson's blond hair and olive complexion stood in marked contrast to Adrian's raven-dark hair and pale skin. Their minds, however, seemed to operate on the same wavelength.

Adrian waved a hand. "Let's hear it, then."

The other man shuffled the papers lying on the table before him, then began to speak. "O.k. Early history: We know Guildmaster LeBeau-- the senior one, that is--" He gave Adrian a wry smile. "Adopted him around the age of twelve. Before that he was on the street."

"Gutter rat." LeBeau's childhood was the subject of much discussion in the Guild, an equal mix of disgust and sympathy. The city of New York had its own share of homeless children. The Guild knew their kind well enough.

"Pretty much."

Adrian stared at the ceiling. "Was he into drugs at all? Sex-trade?"

Carson shook his head. "Everything I managed to scratch up says he was clean when LeBeau took him in. Prostitution is a possibility, but I couldn't come up with anything concrete."

Adrian digested the information, dismissed it as useless. "Nothing there. How about afterward?"

Carson looked down at his notes. "A troublemaker. Too smart for his own good." He met Adrian's gaze. "We have to be careful around this man, Adrian. When New Orleans took him in, he couldn't count past twenty-five and didn't know how to read. Five years later he was one of the sharpest apprentices around. Math, sciences, computing, security layering-- you name it, he aced it."

Adrian felt a familiar twinge. There was no doubt LeBeau was intelligent. Dangerously so, in fact. Still, his education formed a thin patina over the survival-driven street urchin he'd once been. He had no concept of how much more there was to life. _How much more there could be_, Adrian corrected himself. LeBeau didn't-- couldn't-- comprehend the potential reach of the power he held in his hands. _All he wants is safety and comfort. _Understandable, considering his upbringing, but far too shortsighted a goal for Adrian.

The last thing Adrian wanted was for anyone to further over-evaluate the Guildmaster, though, so he uttered a carefully cultivated snort of derision. "He was stupid enough to get himself banished, wasn't he?"

"For killing an Assassin who challenged him to a duel. His own brother-in-law, I think. Big embarrassment for both sides." Carson shrugged. "They let the Assassins torture him for a little while and then banished him to keep the peace."

Adrian said nothing, letting his silence convey his disgust. The New Orleans Guild was incredibly backwards. And why the American Guilds continued to tolerate the insolence of that nest of Assassins was beyond him.

"After he left New Orleans, he traveled up the East Coast," Carson continued. "A banished thief doesn't find much in the way of work-- especially one that just got his mark-- so he made the jump to espionage. CIA to start with. He made some contacts in the Pentagon, too. Eventually branched out to other governments."

Adrian's head snapped up at that. "Treason?" That was too much to hope for. They might be thieves first, but national loyalties remained important.

Carson shook his head. "Sorry. Nothing showed up. He did a fair amount with British SAS, the French, Japan, and the Saudis. But nothing that betrayed American interests." Carson spread out several sheets of paper, looking back and forth between them. "The interesting thing is that while he was doing all that, he was also finagling a lot of instruction from some very capable people."

"Like who?"

"Foreign Guilds. French, Japanese, Russian, even the Chinese."

"Sook Xu?" Xu, a Chinese national and Guildmaster of Hong Kong, was the first ranked Master Thief in the world-- the very best.

Carson nodded. "He pretty much lived and breathed the craft for almost four years, until he got his Master's mark. Then he quit cold." Carson paused, one finger idly tapping the table. "You want to know what I think? I think LeBeau was pissed about being banished and set out to get his Master's rank so he could walk back into New Orleans without a by-your-leave from anyone."

Adrian raised an eyebrow. "Not a bad supposition. I know I'd want some payback." He shook his head. It was one of the first things he'd found to like in the man. "Can't hold it against him, though. What else?"

"Well, no one really knew what to do with a Guild-less Master. They couldn't deny him the rank…"

"But?" Adrian prompted after a moment.

"But, he didn't have a Guild. No Guild means no Guild contracts."

"He started freelancing?" Adrian felt a thrill. Thieving outside the boundaries of Guild control was tantamount to heresy.

"I don't know. He was working, I know that. Some rumors say he answered to the Guildmasters in a roundabout way. He did tithe to New Orleans. No telling if it was the proper percentage." Carson shrugged.

Adrian took a sip of his gin, sucking it through his teeth. If the Guildmasters knew what LeBeau was doing, and if he was giving proper tithe to his home Guild, even banished, there was little there to work with. Frustrated, he rattled the ice in his glass.

"Go on."

"O.k. Here's where it starts to get interesting. He did work as a thief, but he also went back to some of his espionage roots. Black bag stuff-- some so secret I couldn't get to the records, though I could tell you who he was working for. And then he flat disappeared."

"Oh?" Adrian raised an eyebrow. Thieves made their living by getting to things other people thought well hidden. To "disappear", in thief jargon, meant something momentous if even they could find no trace.

"There's a blank spot, about four months long, where he dropped off the face of the earth. There was some talk that he'd taken a private contract, but no one knows for what. He was doing some scouting, putting together a team for something, and then he just disappeared. Resurfaced four months later in Italy." Carson gave Adrian a significant look. "Whatever it was, it gave him screaming nightmares for months afterwards. He didn't work at all for almost a year."

Adrian stared blankly at the tabletop, thinking. That empty gap in LeBeau's history beckoned to him, thrilling his senses with the promise of victory. There had to be something there. "Do we know anything at all?"

"Only that he got those claw marks on his stomach sometime during the four months."

Adrian frowned at that. He'd seen the long parallel scars, as if LeBeau had been mauled by a bear or a lion. "Keep digging. I want to know what happened to him."

"I will." Carson stood and went to refresh his drink from Adrian's tiny wet bar.

"What happened during the year he wasn't working?"

From behind the bar, Carson answered, "He started getting tangled up in mutant stuff."

"The X-Men?"

"Eventually." Carson returned to his seat. "He just started showing up when the super-folk went at it. Crossed paths with a lot of people. Eventually ended up with the X-Men. I don't think it was completely coincidence-- it was too much of a change from his old patterns-- but whether he was trying to get in with that particular group… I don't know."

Well, that might be something else to investigate, Adrian thought. Maybe he could find a way to drive a wedge between LeBeau and the X-Men. That would be almost as valuable as turning the Guild against him.

"So that was when he came to New York." It wasn't a question.

Carson nodded. "Yes. He didn't make any overtures toward the New York Guild for some months, though. What little information I could get says the X-Men were out of the country for most of that time."

Something in his tone of voice gave Adrian pause. "Where?"

"Scotland. A few other places."

Adrian studied his friend. "You're leaving something out."

Carson shrugged. "One rumor I heard suggests the X-Men were in another galaxy for part of the time."

"Another galaxy?" Adrian stared at his cohort.

Carson looked uncomfortable. "That's what they said. I couldn't confirm it, obviously, but I also couldn't specifically put them in another location during that time period." He shrugged. "They bounce around the planet. Keeping track of where and when is difficult at best."

Adrian pushed the bizarre possibilities aside. If LeBeau had had alien friends to call on, he would have had them blow OZTs satellites out of the sky. He reached up to massage his temples. He was getting a headache. "Anything else?"

"Not really. You know the rest, pretty much."

Adrian paused, old anger welling up. "Yeah. He murdered my cousin, and the fools _gave_ him the Guild instead of punishing him." He stared off into the distance, remembering.

"You know, Michael would have made this Guild the premier power in this city," he said, his tone wistful.

Carson gave him a skeptical look. "Maybe. He _was_ under investigation by the FBI."

"LeBeau tipped them."

Carson's eyes widened. "Can you prove that?"

"No." Adrian shook his head. How he wished he could. For a thief to turn another over to the authorities… Even the X-Men wouldn't be able to protect him. Sighing, he forced his thoughts back to the present.

"What about his women? Anything there?" Unfortunately, LeBeau seemed to have abandoned his womanizing ways in the past few years. Blatant promiscuity would have drawn disapproval from the Clans.

Carson smiled. "Do you want the whole list?"

"You have one?" Adrian looked up with interest. Carson showed him a two-page list. There had to be several hundred names, many with dates attached. Adrian thought about it. Leaking that could cause some embarrassment. The Guild was, for the most part, a conservative organization. Family values and all that. They wouldn't like a philanderer Guildmaster. He chewed his lip. If it wasn't all past behavior…

He held out his hand. Carson handed the papers over and took a sip of his drink while Adrian scanned the list. Several names caught his attention, but none would cause the kind of scandal he needed.

"It gets pretty thin there at the end," Carson told him.

"The reason?"

Carson shrugged. "Nobody knows. Pretty much all of his medical treatment for the past few years has been through the X-Men, but I got their blue furry doc to give me a roundabout confirmation that there's no… medical reason."

Pity, Adrian thought. If anyone deserved to have a venereal disease it was LeBeau.

"Maybe he's gotten tired of the lifestyle," Carson suggested.

_With the kind of women who throw themselves at his feet? Not likely._

Adrian emptied his glass. "Any chance he's gotten serious with someone?"

Carson shrugged. "I haven't seen anything."

Adrian sighed. "Oh well. Keep after it," he said. "There's got to be something we can use."

Carson nodded and stood. "I'll let you know if I find anything else."

#-#-#-#

"Ah can't believe y'all are askin' me ta do this!" Rogue combed the hair away from her face with one hand, frustrated by the wall of faces surrounding her. Mystique, Gambit, Cyclops, Logan, Bobby, Artur, Marcus, Adrian, and several of the thieves' adjutants gathered around Gambit's desk all stared back at her.

"Why me?"

Scott shrugged. "Mystique says you're that good. I need Logan elsewhere, and your name is next on the list." His demeanor softened. "I don't like it either, Rogue, if it's any consolation."

Rogue looked from Cyclops to her mother and back. Mystique was pushing again, pushing her to give up on becoming something better than a trained killer. Pushing her back toward the fold. She glanced at Gambit, but his expression remained closed. She wouldn't find any support there. She grimaced to herself. He might even _want_ her to walk that path. After all, it wasn't that big a step from assassination to thieving, and becoming a thief might very well make their relationship possible again.

Rogue bit her lip. The thought both angered and attracted her.

She uttered a grating sigh. "Ah got your word we wouldn't shoot unless the team was compromised?" She kept her gaze on Scott, though the question was really meant for Mystique. But it was Cyclops' mission plan, and her mother had promised to play nice.

Scott nodded. "Yes."

Across from Rogue, Mystique smiled. Rogue tensed. She knew that expression; it meant her mother was laughing at her.

Rogue sighed. She brushed the annoying lock of hair out of her eyes once more. "All right. What, exactly, do ya want me ta do?"

Scott turned the mission diagram so they could both view it right side up. "This would be your post." He pointed to a small ridge about forty yards from the compound fence. From photos Rogue knew the entire area was covered in a mixture of tall grass and brush-- perfect for hiding. Scott went on, describing the mission.

As he spoke, Mystique drained the last of her coffee. She leaned over to say something to Remy in an undertone then, at his nod, took his coffee cup and her own and headed toward the bar in the corner of the office. Distracted, Rogue kept an eye on her mother while trying to listen to Scott. Cyclops was going through the mission timing.

"Logan and Marcus will be most vulnerable here." Scott pointed. Logan and Marcus were the advance team, responsible for taking down the site's security. "If there's a roving patrol anywhere in this area--" he outlined a pie-shaped slice of ground on the diagram, "they'll have to be taken out."

Rogue nodded. In her peripheral vision she watched her mother measure a second spoonful of honey into Remy's mug. Mystique stirred it, then took an evaluatory sip. Apparently satisfied, she returned to the table, setting Remy's cup down in front of him and cradling her own in her hands.

Wishing she could shake off her sense of unease, Rogue focused once again on Scott. Mystique didn't help her efforts. She stood silently across the table, sipping her coffee and grinning at Rogue as if she were enjoying a truly remarkable joke.

"Y' might be able t' cut down dat vulnerable spot by puttin' a second lookout on de southeast corner o' Buildin' 22." Each of the buildings in the complex was numbered. Their target was Building 6. Remy didn't gesture or point. He couldn't, of course, because he couldn't see the diagram, though close to half of the people in the room didn't know that. Still, he never had talked with his hands so it didn't seem unusual. He picked up his coffee and sipped it absently.

Alarm bells began to ring in Rogue's mind. Confused, she paused, mentally reviewing the last few moments. What had triggered it? Had Remy done something to give himself away? She considered the possibility and was forced to discard it. She hadn't seen anything that might hint at his handicap.

"Rogue?"

Disturbed, Rogue looked up at Scott. "Yeah?"

"You still with me?"

She nodded. "Ah'm listenin'. Just tryin' ta think somethin' through."

He accepted that with a nod. "Do you see a problem?"

Beside Scott, Mystique's smirk widened. Rogue stared at her mother as she answered Scott, "Don' know just yet, sugah. Let me think a minute." She made a show of studying the drawings while her mind raced. Mystique had done something. That was what had set off her internal warnings. But what? No, that wasn't right, Rogue corrected herself. _Remy_ had triggered the warning bells. But what had he done? She thought back. Nothing but drink his coffee and suggest an additional lookout.

Rogue's breath caught in her throat. Her stomach clamped into a cold knot. Nothing but drink his coffee…

The coffee her mother had made for him.

With two spoonfuls of honey instead of sugar.

Just the way he liked it.

Something Mystique had taught her, long long ago, about observing people came back in a rush. _Outside the office, if you ever see a woman fixing a man's coffee, she's either his mother or his lover._

Rogue stood frozen. A tiny chuckle escaped Mystique, the sound nearly lost in the general babble of ongoing conversations.

Remy glanced at Rogue, then Mystique, a frown crinkling his brow. "Dat was cruel, Raven." The mild comment, delivered in an undertone, barely reached across the desk. Most of those gathered either didn't hear or didn't attach any significance. A thousand questions tumbled through Rogue's mind, questions she didn't dare voice. A mistake now might kill them all. Adrian stood not three feet away. She could not react.

Mystique grinned back at Gambit, unaffected by his disapproval. "Truth often is."

He winced at that, a miniscule flicker of reaction.

Nausea threatened to overwhelm Rogue. She bit the inside of her lip, fighting for calm.

"Rogue?" Scott watched her, his expression a mixture of impatience and interest. He showed no sign of having understood what had just transpired between herself, Mystique and Remy.

Rogue gathered her wits. "Sorry, sugah." She smoothed her hair with one hand. "This looks good ta me." She risked a glance at Remy, hoping her expression wouldn't give anything away. "The second lookout is a good idea, too."

Remy gave her a nod and an empty smile. Rogue felt cold. A short ways away, Bobby watched her with sympathy in his blue eyes, which only made Rogue angrier. It was altogether possible Bobby had known and hadn't said anything.

Scott continued with the mission briefing. Rogue listened as best she could and excused herself as soon as was possible without drawing suspicion. Remy, she noted, didn't look up as she walked out.

#-#-#-#

It took some careful arranging, but Remy finally found an opportunity to talk to Rogue. She was in the gym, working out at one of the bags. He could see warm drops of sweat flying from her as she pummeled the bag with both hands and feet. Rogue was slimming down, he noticed absently. Her powers had kept her from needing to be in top physical form. Now she was trading some of her luscious curvature for lean, hard muscle.

Dressed for his own workout, Remy angled across the room toward Rogue. He came up behind the bag, bracing it before leaning around to look at the woman he loved.

Rogue stopped short when she saw him. The exercise had warmed her entire body, making it difficult to read any kind of emotion from her heat signature.

"Sugah, that's a dangerous place foh ya ta stand." She hit the bag hard as if to demonstrate her meaning.

"Better t' be _behind _de bag den in front of it, neh?"

Rogue shook her head and hit the bag again. "If ya were standin' in front of it, ah couldn't be held responsible fo' mah actions." Though Remy couldn't see her glare, he could feel it.

Remy lowered his voice. The gym was loud and there was no one close, but it was dangerous to have an honest discussion with her. Dangerous but worth the price, he hoped. "Are y' mad because Raven an' I were lovers once, or because I didn' tell y'?"

Rogue's taped fists made dull thumping sounds against the bag. "Both, sugah."

She paused, leaning on one hand. Her breath came in harsh gasps. "She's mah _mother_, Remy!" Rogue, too, kept the volume down. The exclamation came out as an angry hiss.

After a moment, she went back to her workout. In between blows she asked, "So what happened?"

Remy ignored the jostling of the bag and stared at her. "Do y' really want t' know?"

Rogue stopped cold. Then she flung her arms wide. "Yes." She pointed a finger at his nose. "It's the new you." The finger turned toward herself. "It's the new me. Yes, ah want ta know."

Remy couldn't help but smile. _This_ was the woman he'd fallen for. _How I wish we could have gotten to this point when there was still a chance to do something with it._ But since it hadn't, he could only admire her from a carefully maintained distance.

He nodded. "All right, chere. Truth is, I was sleepin' wit' Raven Darkholme-- de real one. Was fishin' for a connection at de Pentagon t' do some contract work." He shrugged. If she didn't realize by this point that he'd often used sex as a means to reach other objectives, she was less willing to be honest than she seemed.

Rogue didn't react, though, so he went on. "Den one day, Raven wasn' Raven anymore."

Rogue paused thoughtfully. She leaned against the bag. "Mystique…?"

He nodded. "Killed her an' replaced her. I only suspected, o' course, but I figured I was dead if I let on. Was only eighteen at de time. She was out o' my league back den." He smiled, remembering. "She tol' me later dat de only reason she _didn'_ slit m' throat was because she was convinced I didn' know. We had a pretty good laugh about it." He paused. "'Course, dat was years later."

Rogue stared at him, her face a featureless mass of infrared colors. "Why didn't ah ever see ya?" She asked after a moment. Her tone had lost its angry edge as if, perhaps, curiosity was winning out over outrage.

Remy could only shrug. "Y' prob'ly did. I remember seein' y' a time or two. Couldn' o' been more dan t'irteen." He gave her an ingratiating smile. "Skinny lil' t'ing."

Rogue stepped back, hands on hips. For a minute Remy was afraid he'd pushed too hard. But Rogue surprised him when all she said was, "Ah'm done." She gestured at the bag. "Trade?"

_Normal as c'n be. _Whatever she felt, she kept her reaction completely under control. He nodded and they traded places. Remy threw a few light punches, warming up. _Chere, y' probably never know how much I love seein' y' like dis. We would've made quite a team._ The thought brought a pang of regret.

Remy picked up his pace. For a while, the only sound between them was the thumping of his hands and feet against the bag. Eventually he paused to adjust the tape on one hand.

"So, how many times has she used this ta blackmail ya?"

Startled, Remy grinned. "A few."

"Ah'll bet." Rogue seemed to think for a moment before going on. "Ah wonder why she said somethin' now. What's she gettin' from it?"

Remy snorted. "Probably de satisfaction o' watchin' y' have t' choke it down. Dat would be her style."

Rogue laughed, though the sound was strained. "Yeah, ah guess that's so. Ah wonder what else, though. Momma nevah does things foh just one reason."

Remy agreed, though he didn't say so. He needed some time to think that one through himself.

He watched her heat signature, which was beginning to return to normal. "Y' still mad at me, chere?" he asked softly.

"What do ya think?"

Remy couldn't pass up the opportunity. "Non, chere. I'm much too charmin' t' stay mad at." He flashed his infamous grin.

Rogue heaved a long-suffering sigh and chuckled. "The scary thing is, ya right."

Remy's heart lightened as he went back to his workout. They might have lost the chance to ever be together, but no one ever said they couldn't still be friends.

"Hey, Remy?"

"Oui, chere?" He kept his focus on the bag.

"Would ya ever have told me? Ah mean, if all this hadn't happened--"

Remy pulled up. That was a tough question. He chewed on his lip. "Raven would've pushed de issue eventually." He hesitated, then forced himself to go on. Being honest with her wasn't necessarily easy. "Ot'herwise, no, probably not."

Rogue was silent for several moments. When she did answer, her voice held an echo of hurt. "Fair 'nough. That wasn't the answer ah was hopin' for, but ah appreciate gettin' the truth."

Remy's conscience twinged. He could only hope she wouldn't start asking questions about the memories she carried around in her head. There were some things he didn't ever want her to know.


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

Rogue lay on her stomach in the tall field grass, cheeked propped on the butt of the sniper rifle as she peered through the scope. A tuft of greenery from her ghillie suit dangled in front of her nose, threatening to make her sneeze. The bulky full body camouflage suit, covered in strips of cloth, twigs and grasses, turned her form into nothing but a little bump atop the hillock where she waited.

Half a mile away, the insertion team had bypassed the perimeter security of the OZT fuel depot and now crept cautiously through the interior of the campus. Rogue followed their progress through the transmitter in her ear. Her rifle's sights were trained on an open piece of ground halfway between two outbuildings. If any guards crossed that area at the wrong time, they would spot the intruders.

Rogue's gut clenched as two men walked into her line of sight. Both wore the standard dress of OZT's uniformed guard service-- black fatigues with kevlar armor-- and they carried snub-nosed MP5s rather than energy rifles.

Rogue adjusted her grip on the rifle, her trigger finger tightening instinctively. The two men strolled across her field of vision, their body language casual.

"I got two," she said into her microphone. "Wolverine, where are you?"

"Still outside the door," Logan's gravely voice answered immediately. "We're not clear, darlin'. Repeat, we are not clear."

Rogue muttered a vehement curse. She knew what she had to do, and hated it. A tiny adjustment brought the crosshairs on her scope up to frame the head of the closer of the two men. Fortunately, their uniforms didn't include helmets. Both guards' heads turned from side to side, scanning the area around them disinterestedly as they continued to walk.

_Don't think. Just do it._

Exhaling slowly, she pulled the trigger. The rifle kicked against her cheek, and the closer guard jerked and collapsed. His companion ducked instinctively, dropping to one knee and raising his rifle as he searched for a threat. Rogue knew she had to get him before he could call in an alert on the communicator attached to his uniform. She saw him reach for the toggle button attached to his collar. An unnatural calm descended on her. She centered the sights on the second man and fired. The guard collapsed backward and lay still.

"Two down," she reported.

"We're in," Wolverine said. "Good job."

Rogue closed her eyes and exhaled a slow, shaky breath.

#-#-#-#

Jubilee froze at the sound of footsteps outside her cell door. The shadows inside her darkened prison flickered as the guards shifted back and forth in front of the single grille near the top of the door.

With a loud click and a scrape of hinges, the metal door swung open. Jubilee cowered against the far wall, squinting in the glare of the hallway lights. Her guards filled the doorway, their black silhouettes casting long shadows.

"Stand up, girlie. Time for your constitutional," one of the guards said.

Jubilee stayed where she was, and the guard sighed. "Do we have to do this every time?" He walked into the cell, his wide frame looming over her like a mountain. He reached down, grabbed Jubilee by the arm and hauled her to her feet.

Jubilee whimpered, but didn't resist as he marched her out of the cell. Her captors had started paying attention to her recently, taking her out of the cell for a daily physical. Whatever they'd done to her, it was finished. Her hair had grown in until it formed an unruly cap of three-inch strands and the scars on her arms no longer itched constantly.

The guards walked her down a long gray hallway with doors just like hers lined up along one side. Sometimes, Jubilee heard voices as she passed--crying, babbling, singing, pleading. She wondered who they were, and what they'd done to end up in this nightmare place. Many of the doors were like her own, solid save for a small grille near the top, but others had a standard vertical window through which Jubilee caught glimpses of the prisoners.

Her guards jerked her to a stop as one of the cell doors opened right in front of them. A tall, gray haired man in a white coat let himself out. He had an oddly kind face and a clipboard tucked under one arm. Through the window in the door, Jubilee caught a glimpse of the prisoner, and her breath caught in her throat. Her blood began to pound in her ears, deafening her. She would have recognized that bald head anywhere.

Quickly, she focused her gaze on the floor and tried to erase any expression from her face. Her thoughts spun.

The man in the lab coat closed the Professor's cell door, which locked with a harsh mechanical noise. The light on the panel next to the door switched from green to red.

With a muttered, "Excuse me," the man ducked past Jubilee and her guards. Jubilee heard his footsteps retreating behind her.

"Come on, girlie." Her guard nudged her forward. Jubilee forced herself to maintain her normal listless shuffle as they continued down the hall, but her nerves were screaming. She had to find a way to escape and find the X-Men. They would be able to get the Professor out of this prison, powers or no powers. She knew they would.

For the first time since her arrival, Jubilee began to really take note of her surroundings. She already knew the path they took through the featureless gray hallways to get to the exercise room, and now she tried to mark the other passageways as they passed. The prison, she suspected, was laid out on a long, narrow, rectangular grid. There were dividers at regular intervals, almost like bulkheads, that separated the various sections of the prison. Jubilee's cell was two sections down from the exercise area. The guards carried badges clipped to their belts that let them pass from one section to another.

The exercise area looked much like any other gym. Nautilus, weight benches and other exercise equipment filled the center of the room while a four lane jogging track looped around the perimeter. A door at the back of the room led to a physical therapy area and Jubilee had seen several patients taken back there in wheel chairs.

Three other patients in gray jumpsuits were working out when Jubilee arrived. All three were men, and none was less than thirty years her senior. One of the men was singing to himself as he worked the weight machine, a grating off-key tune that made her think of Jack Nicholson and psycho killers.

"Whose bright idea was it to bring Norman Bates in here?" she heard one of her guards mutter to the other.

Several other guards were scattered around the room, watching their charges with varying degrees of attentiveness.

"You want to walk or ride the exercise bike today?" Jubilee's guard asked her.

Jubilee knew he'd choose one for her if she didn't answer. "Walk," she told him, her own voice little more than a raspy whisper. She hadn't had much reason to talk lately.

The guard steered her over to the track. "Twenty laps, girlie." He gave her a light shove in the proper direction.

Obediently, Jubilee began to walk. The talkative guard stayed behind her, pacing her, while his partner went over to the corner of the room and sat down on a bench beside one of the other guards. The two men's voices rose and fell in conversation over the sounds of the exercise equipment and the grunts of the prisoners.

Jubilee put her head down and shuffled onward.

#-#-#-#

Adrian Tyre looked up in surprise as Carson McCall burst through his door, a large manila envelope in his hands.

"I've got it!" Carson hurried across the room and thrust the envelope at Adrian. "Adrian, you are not going to believe this."

Adrian looked past the other man's shoulder to make certain the door had swung closed behind Carson before he took the envelope. From the heft, he could tell it contained a sheaf of photographs. He gave his friend a disapproving look for his theatrics. "What is it?"

Carson deflated, but only a little. "I got these from a contact of mine. They were taken by an FBI counter terrorism unit a few days after Mystique shot Senator Creed."

Curious, Adrian sat down on the couch and opened the envelope. He extracted the photographs and set the envelope aside. The top photo showed a standard surveillance photo, taken through a high quality long-distance lens. A tall, non-descript woman walked down a city street, her form shade-dappled from the trees lining the far side of the sidewalk. The second image showed the same woman looking over her shoulder as she ducked into a park-like area. Her shoulder-length brown hair had been blown across her face by the wind.

Adrian was about to ask Carson what he was supposed to be seeing when he flipped to the third photo. He paused there to study the image, question forgotten. The woman's hair had suddenly become waist-length and red, and her plain knee length skirt looked like it was in the midst of being swallowed up by a predatory pair of denim jeans.

"Mystique?" he asked, and received a nod.

He flipped to the next image and paused again. Mystique's hair had taken on a distinctive curl and a mop of white hair streaked its top. He turned the picture sideways, narrowing his eyes in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the face.

He flipped through the next few images and had his suspicions confirmed. Now it was Rogue who walked through the park. But why would Mystique use a known X-Man's guise for a cover at a time when absolutely every intelligence agency in the country was looking for her? Rogue was not low-profile.

In his peripheral vision he could see Carson still standing beside him, nearly bouncing in his excitement. Mentally shaking his head, he continued. The next image framed Mystique/Rogue walking up to a man. Adrian stared. A very familiar man.

A thrill of anticipation ran through him. No, it couldn't be. _ He couldn't have been that stupid. _Adrian turned to the next picture. In it, his Guildmaster held the false Rogue close, her hand to his lips. She had her head tipped back, laughing. Every line of their bodies spoke of familiarity and intimacy.

Adrian took the picture off the stack and set the rest down absently on the coffee table in front of him. This picture alone would crucify LeBeau. It didn't even matter that it was really Mystique. The only plausible reason for her to use her daughter's form as camouflage was because the relationship between LeBeau and Rogue was serious enough that it was common knowledge among the intelligence agencies.

And LeBeau had never breathed a word to the guild about it.

A slow smile spread across Adrian's face. Carson plopped down on the couch beside him, chuckling gleefully.

"What did I tell you?" Carson picked up the stack of photos and began straightening them.

"This is--" Adrian couldn't come up with an appropriate word to describe the opportunity he'd just been handed. Laughter climbed up his throat, seeking release and he pressed the back of his hand to his mouth to smother it. "This is amazing." He looked at the picture in his hand once again. "I'm going to enjoy every moment of watching LeBeau try to squirm out of this one."

#-#-#-#

Rogue walked wearily into her bedroom at the Black's some time around midmorning. To her immense relief, neither Andrea nor the babies were there. The rooms were silent and dark. With a sigh, she knelt beside her bed and undid the latches on her rifle case. She slung the weapon off her shoulder and balanced it on her thighs as she began the process of disassembling it.

They'd blown the fuel depot sky high in a series of massive orange fireballs that rolled up into the sky like miniature mushroom clouds. A spectacular success, by any accounting. But all Rogue could see when she closed her eyes were the two men whose brains she'd splattered in the dirt to make it happen.

_Ah did my job, that's all,_ she told herself for the umpteenth time. Chances were, she'd have to do it again. And she knew she would, if it came to that. But it didn't help the acid churning in her gut, or the weight that dragged at her heart.

Her hands took care of the rifle out of habit. She cleaned the pieces before putting each away in its proper place then closed the lid, securing the latches. She slid the case into its customary spot against the wall and tossed the extra blanket Andrea had given her on top. At least that way she wouldn't have to see it every time she walked into the room.

Sighing, Rogue pushed herself to her feet. Her bed called to her, but she couldn't stand the thought of trying to sleep. She was afraid of the kinds of nightmares she would have. Instead, she turned and headed back out into the guild complex.

People greeted her as she passed, and she struggled to make her responses pleasant, even cheerful. Some she knew by name, others were just vaguely familiar faces. A few were people she dealt with on a regular basis in her unofficial role as a go between for Rosalind, Andrea and the other clan women.

By the time she'd reached the small complex of caverns the guild was using for their school, Rogue had been stopped no less than three times by people who wanted to give her updates or make requests about the various school, housing and constructions issues she'd ended up involved in.

"Well, hello, Rogue," Rosalind greeted her as she walked through the school's main entrance. As the administrator, Rosalind could usually be found out in the hallways, and today was no different. "I wasn't expecting to see you today." Rogue could hear a dozen different voices, both teachers' and children's, emanating from the open classroom doors nearby.

Rogue tried to summon a smile and failed. She shrugged. "I need ta do something that doesn't involve killing people for a while." She held out a stack of papers she'd acquired on her trip across the complex. "Here, Fernando wanted me to give these to you. I ran into him on my way here." Fernando Vasquez was the guild's construction foreman.

Rosalind gave Rogue a concerned look from under her eyebrows as she took the papers, but didn't comment. She studied the drawings, her lips pursed. "This isn't much more space." They'd been working with Fernando and his crew to try to find a way to expand the school.

Rogue brushed a stray hair out of her face with a sigh. "No, but I think it's the best he can do."

Rosalind looked up. "You may be right." She tucked the sheaf of papers under her arm with brisk efficiency. "I suppose it will have to be enough." Her mouth quirked in a rueful smile. "Will Sandberg will be grateful not to have to listen to me harping on him all the time, anyway."

Rogue didn't really want to discuss guild issues at the moment. She waved one hand toward the classrooms. "Where do ya want me?" she asked instead.

Rosalind took the hint. She gave Rogue a warm, sympathetic smile. Why don't you try the first graders? I know they'd love to have Miss Rogue read them a story."

Rogue smiled a bit at that. The children all called her Miss Rogue, even outside the school. Whenever she was in the complex's common areas, there always seemed to be a small hand tugging on her sleeve, wanting to give her a hug or show her something, or drag her over to meet the child's parents. It was, she thought, the only thing that brightened her otherwise grim days. That, and the rare occasion she and Remy crossed paths.

Rogue nodded and made her way toward the back of the school, to the dim, cramped little room full of bright-eyed first graders. At the door, she paused to take a deep, cleansing breath. Summoning a genuine smile from somewhere, she opened the door and stuck her head inside.

"Mind if ah join ya?" she asked the teacher, a stout little woman named Adoracion, and was rewarded by a chorus of "Miss Rogue!" from her class.

Dora turned from the room's one whiteboard in surprise, but waved Rogue in once she recognized who it was. "Of course. Come in, dear." She turned to address the class. "It looks like we have a special visitor today. Everyone, stand up and move your chairs out of the way."

Rogue came into the room as the children all jumped up and began shoving their desks and chairs toward the walls with an awful screeching of metal feet on stone. Rogue found herself laughing at their chaotic enthusiasm, and the weight on her heart eased. She walked over to the ratty little bookshelf that served the class and crouched down to search for an appropriate book. Behind her, the children, with Dora's occasional direction, found places to sit on the stone floor in the middle of the room. Rogue joined them, book in hand, and they all immediately crowded in around her.

The stone was cold and hard, but she ignored it as she opened the book to the first page and began to read. In the back of her mind, she added rugs to her mental list of things to buy if she could find a way to pry more money out of the council. And maybe paint, she thought with a glance toward the dark stone walls.

She didn't have to deal with that until later, though, so she happily bent her attention toward the children surrounding her.

#-#-#-#

Jubilee had just finished lap eleven of her required twenty when it happened. Still singing, the crazy prisoner picked up one of the free weights and clubbed his fellow prisoner on the head. Blood spattered across the equipment. The second prisoner screeched and collapsed, wrapping his arms around his head as the crazy one rained blows down on him.

Shouting, the guards in the room converged on the two. The crazy man swung the barbell at the first of the guards, who couldn't duck quite fast enough. Jubilee heard the crunch of breaking bones as the man's jaw shattered. Crowing, the prisoner grabbed the falling guard's sidearm. He began firing randomly-- at the guards, the ceiling, the other prisoners.

Jubilee hit the floor as the guards dove for cover. Her guard crouched down behind a nearby weight machine, drawing his own weapon. He had his back turned to her, and his attention was focused on the armed man. Jubilee saw her opportunity. She scuttled over to where he was. With a quick yank she snatched the pass card from his belt and ran for the door.

She heard her guard give a startled shout, but she was already halfway across the room. Her heart hammered in her chest in anticipation of a shot that never came. She skidded into the heavy door, holding the key card up to the scanner with one hand as she grabbed the door handle with the other. The red light on the panel turned green and, with a grating buzz, the lock thunked open.

Jubilee yanked hard on the door. It opened, and she slipped through, out into the hallway. A fire extinguisher hung on the wall next to the door, a bright red cylinder against the gray walls. She pulled it off the wall and nearly dropped it-- it was heavier than she expected-- but managed to recover. With a grunt of exertion, she slammed the bottom of the extinguisher into the control panel beside the door, pounding on it until sparks flew and the lights abruptly went out.

Hoping that would be enough to stall the guards for a few minutes, at least, she dropped the extinguisher and took off down the hall. She had no idea how long it would be before they subdued or killed the crazy prisoner and sounded a general alarm.

The door at the end of the hall opened for her key card. She ducked through and ran to the Professor's door. She swiped the card at the panel controlling his door, but the light stayed red. She tried again and again, with the same result.

"Professor!" She pounded on the door with the palm of her hand, eliciting a dull metallic boom. "Professor, can you hear me? I can't get the door open!" She stared through the small window at the man who sat hunched in his wheelchair, but he didn't respond. Tears blurred her vision. "I'll come back for you, I promise," she told him through the door. "I'll find the X-Men and we'll come back to get you!" She wasn't sure who the promise was more for, him, or herself.

Someone started banging on the door she'd come through, hard enough to make the floor shudder. The guards were trying to break through. With a cry she threw herself away from the Professor's door and ran for the far end of the hall. Some of the other prisoners banged on the insides of their cells, hooting and yelling. Behind her, the door to the cell block, the one she'd come through, flew open. Several guards stood there, weapons drawn.

Jubilee dodged to the side of the hall before any of them could take aim. Experimentally, she swiped the key card across the nearest control pad and heard the lock bolts disengage. The cell door burst open, nearly crushing her against the wall. She heard the whine and sizzle of energy weapons firing, but the metal door shielded her. The prisoner she'd freed leapt out into the corridor, landing on all fours in a feline crouch. He was big and hairy like Beast, but his fur was a tawny orange. With an animal scream, he launched himself at the guards.

Jubilee didn't stay to watch. She slid out from behind the door and ran, swiping lock pads as she went. Doors opened behind her, spilling the cells' contents into the hall and creating a mass of pandemonium behind her.

For the first time since her capture, Jubilee found herself grinning. At least for this one moment, she was free and she had a purpose. She was an X-Man again. One of the freed prisoners got caught by some kind of blast and went sliding down the hall ahead of her. She vaulted his prone form before he could trip her and hit the end of the hall at a dead run. That door opened for her card, too, and she dove through.

Jubilee skidded to an abrupt halt, stunned. Instead of another bank of cells, she stood at the back of a giant hangar. She counted four ships of unfamiliar design parked on the vast metal floor, and beyond them, the hangar opened onto a gulf of blackness, littered with stars. A slice of Earth was visible toward the top of the opening with Italy's boot shape clearly visible, and her stomach lurched as her brain tried to insist that what she knew to be "up" was really "down", in relation to the planet.

Gathering her wits and taking a quick look around to see if anyone had noticed her entrance, she ran across the empty space toward the smallest of the ships. There weren't any people in the hanger, as far as she could tell. Reaching the ship, she climbed up to the pilot's side door and tried the handle. It opened, so she climbed inside.

The cockpit lit up as she settled in the seat, and she felt the seat's contour adjust to her body. She examined the controls, finding both a collective and a cyclic stick to control lateral and vertical motion separately. She grimaced. It was like a helicopter then, and she'd never really gotten the hang of helicopters.

She hit the master start switch, a great big red button in the middle of the control panel, and heard the engines start up with a rumble.

"You can do this, Jubes," she muttered to herself as she wrapped her hands around the control sticks. With a little pull, the ship nosed up and floated away from the floor. Through the cockpit windscreen, she saw a pair of big red lights on either side of the hanger doors begin to flash in unison and the distant wail of an alarm reached her. The hangar doors began to slide shut.

"Uh oh." Jubilee shoved the cyclic forward and the little ship darted out of the hangar and out into the blackness of space. To either side, huge metal constructs stretched away into the distance, wings of the satellite she'd just launched from. The big blue and brown sphere of Earth filled her windscreen as she pointed the ship's nose toward it. The planet seemed to beckon to her, promising home and friends and safety if she could just get that far.

Swallowing hard against a sudden lump in her throat, she examined the cockpit's many switches and buttons. With a little "aha" of triumph, she located the autopilot controls. A central display screen offered her the possible choices of landing sites that could be programmed into the autopilot, and she selected New York without a second thought.

Jubilee engaged the autopilot, then sank back in her seat with a sigh of relief.

It wasn't until the bright fire of re-entry had died away, and the massive patchwork of New York's buildings and street loomed ahead of her, that it occurred to her that any landing site preprogrammed into the ship would be a place OZT controlled. They would be waiting for her.

There was no way Jubilee was going to let OZT capture her again. She sat up and disconnected the autopilot with a sharp jab. The little ship immediately began to roll away from its earlier flight vector and she grabbed the controls. The New York skyline rushed toward her, terrifyingly fast. Just as quickly, she realized she wasn't going to be able to fly the aircraft. It slewed and bucked under her control, and every correction she tried only made things worse. The best she would be able to hope for was a controlled crash.

Beneath her, the city skyscrapers gave way to an industrial area. Jubilee brought the ship down on an erratic course toward the wide swath of flat-topped buildings and open lots. At the last minute, she yanked back on the collective to bring the nose up. Her ship plowed into the ground on its belly in a shriek of tortured metal. The impact slammed her forward against the restraints.

_Landing gear, stupid!_ a voice inside her head shouted. _You forgot about the landing gear!_ But it was far too late for her to do anything about it. She clung to the controls as the ship lurched and began to tumble.

Jubilee had time for a single scream before darkness overtook her.


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

Scott leaned his head back against the soft leather of the couch in Gambit's office, eyes closed. It was nearly midnight and he was bone tired despite the short nap he'd managed to snatch that afternoon. He could hear the muted clinking of glass and ice from the corner of the room as Remy made drinks for them.

With a sigh, Scott sat forward and reached for the open laptop that sat on the coffee table in front of him. He opened a browser window and selected a site from the favorites list. A plain, no-frills web site appeared, with "FreedomNet" inscribed across the top in star spangled letters.

"Shall we see what Trish has to say about our latest mission?" he asked rhetorically.

Several weeks earlier, Trish Tilby had abdicated her position as a national news anchor for one of the big television stations and had started reporting for one of the upstart anti-OZT groups that had begun distributing uncensored news over the internet. Scott had not hesitated to pounce on the opportunity. Now, whenever the X-Men planned a mission, Scott--through Gambit and his thieves-- made sure Trish got a tip on where and when to be to get the scoop. It served two purposes: the first being to let people know that someone, somewhere was successfully fighting OZT, and the second, to let the X-Men claim responsibility for their actions. That was the only way to protect the Guild. If the X-Men claimed sole responsibility for the sabotage, then there was no reason for those in charge in the government to look for others who might be involved.

Remy settled on the couch next to him with a drink in either hand. He handed Scott's whiskey to him and set his own scotch down on the table. In an unusual surrender to comfort, Remy had abandoned his jacket and tie earlier in the evening, and had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, which made him seem a great deal more normal in Scott's eyes. These days, Scott could hardly remember the unreliable wastrel he'd once believed Gambit to be.

Scott checked the FreedomNet page, but Trish's midnight segment had not yet appeared. He took a sip of his drink. "You know, once this is all over with, I'm going to have to make some changes to the team rosters." Scott refused to entertain the idea that OZTs dominance might never end, and in the back of his mind he continued to plan for the day the world returned to something resembling normal.

Remy took a sip of his own drink, watching Scott curiously over the rim. "Why's dat?"

Scott shrugged. "Rather than trying to make the Blue and Gold teams relatively equal in terms of power distribution like we've done in the past, I think it would make more sense to have one team that's the core assault team, and one that's a lot more... flexible in the roles they can fill." His lips quirked into a wry smile that Remy echoed. The X-Men had gotten a significant lesson recently in accomplishing their goals through alternate means. Scott couldn't deny that, even with their powers restored, there would be times when reverting to those methods would be most effective.

Scott ran his hands through his hair. "Anyway, that second team should be yours." He gestured toward Remy.

To his surprise, Remy immediately shook his head. "Non."

"What do you mean?"

Remy frowned. "Y' ain't gon' make me leader of anyt'ing for de X-Men. Sorry."

Scott regarded him quizzically. His first instinct, still, was to get angry at the flat refusal, but he knew Remy too well by now. He would have his reasons. Even if Scott didn't agree with them, he would have them.

"All right. Why not?" he asked.

Remy swirled his drink, eliciting a musical tinkle of ice and glass. "Dere's too many eyes on de X-Men." He raised the glass to his lips. "Assumin' dere comes a day when de X-Men are operatin' out of Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters again, I'm gon' be de same person dere I've always been." He flashed his most irritating grin and Scott rolled his eyes. But, he had to admit he had a point. Remy wouldn't want the kind of attention leading one of the teams would bring, regardless of how well he might do the job.

Scott wagged a warning finger at him. "Fine. But you'd better start showing up for morning practices, at least."

Remy chuckled, a wicked sound that made Scott think he was unlikely to get much cooperation on that one. He found himself grinning, too, despite his annoyance. He'd happily trade their present circumstances for one in which he had the luxury of waging a running battle of wills with Gambit over something as insignificant as morning practices.

Setting his drink aside, he refreshed the FreedomNet page and was rewarded when a new thumbnail image appeared on the screen. "Looks like they've posted Trish's new segment," he said.

He tapped the image and watched as the file loaded. Eventually, the screen was taken over by a picture of Trish Tilby. The picture quality was fair, but without the benefit of studio lighting and makeup artists, Trish seemed both paler and less put-together than she'd been as an anchor. She held a microphone in one hand, and her gaze roved the area around her, only returning to the camera for brief periods as she spoke.

"Hello, America," she said. "I'm standing in the middle of an ordinary suburban neighborhood on the outskirts of New York right now." She gestured toward the two upper middle-class houses that were visible in the backdrop. "Behind me, past the edge of this neighborhood, is an industrial park controlled by Operation Zero Tolerance. Several times a day, Prime Sentinels can be seen landing there to refuel." The camera shifted over Trish's shoulder, focusing on the gap between the houses. Behind them, the land sloped down into a broad valley where the fueling depot could be seen, laid out exactly like the schematics Scott had stared at for so many hours. Briefly, the scene cut away to show a stock footage-like view of the depot, with a dozen Prime Sentinels lowering themselves into the center of the complex.

The scene disappeared and the camera refocused on Trish. "Now, I don't know exactly what's going to happen here, but I received a communique from the X-Men earlier today, so I suspect we will be finding out shortly. As most of you are aware, the X-Men, despite having lost their mutant powers, have dared to defy Operation Zero Tolerance here in the New York area. Other groups in other parts of the country and around the world have also been fighting back, but none with such undeniable--" She cut off as the first of the fuel bunkers detonated. Trish ducked, instinctively raising her arms to protect her head as a massive pillar of orange flame roared into the sky behind her. The second followed mere moments afterward, and then the last three went up simultaneously. For a second there was only the continuous deafening rumble of the explosion, but then Scott heard someone behind camera whooping in unrestrained glee.

Scott grinned. "Wow, that was more impressive than I thought." When the bunkers had gone up, he'd been too busy running to look behind him.

Trish had turned to watch the explosions, but now returned her attention to the camera. "Well, there you have it," she told them with a smile. "Yet another victory for the X-Men, and for all of us citizens of this great country-- and another defeat for OZT. This is Trish Tilby reporting." The screen blanked for less than a second, and the image that replaced it was once again Trish, but this time seated on a stool in front of a plain beige curtain. Scott knew she and her film crew stayed on the move to avoid arrest and detention by OZT's forces, so she had no set to film in front of.

"In other news," she said, "protesters gathered on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial this past weekend to demand that the President and Congress put a stop to the Prime Sentinels program and OZT." Trish's visage disappeared, replaced by a scene of the mall in Washington D.C. A sea of people surrounded the Lincoln Memorial, carrying signs and yelling slogans as they milled about. The film was of lower quality than the previous clip and jerked badly, as if someone were carrying a hand-held recorder as they walked through the crowd. Scott saw signs reading "Land of the FREE, home of the brave" and "No more OZT" and even flags with the Nazi's black swastika and OZT printed across it.

"Bastion's plan is starting to backfire on him," Scott commented. He had to work to push down the excitement that wanted to rise up from his gut. It would be easy to start believing their eventual victory was assured just because average Americans were getting angry enough to protest OZT.

The footage of the protest continued as Trish's overlaid voice described the event. At one point, Scott saw a sign move across the screen, carried by a person in the crowd. It startled him so much that his hands automatically went to the laptop's touch pad. He stopped the newscast and rewound it so he could catch another glimpse of the placard.

"What is it?" Remy asked beside him. He couldn't see any of the images, only hear the footage and Trish's descriptions.

"Someone was carrying a sign--" Scott found the appropriate place and restarted the playback. "There." He spotted it again, focusing solely on the short-lived image to make sure he'd read it right. He had. Something bright and hot and hopeful sprang to life in his chest.

"It says 'Mutants have rights too'," he told Remy.

"Y' kidding." The other man was skeptical.

Scott shook his head. "I don't think I'd believe it if I hadn't just seen it for myself." His mind began to race through the possibilities. Was it even remotely possible that Bastion's plan to destroy mutants could instead give birth to the one thing mutants had never had? In the past, even the mention of mutant rights had been enough to kill a politician's career in its tracks. Now, though... Scott stroked his chin, lost in thought.

"Don' like it when you go all quiet like dat, mon ami," Remy commented sourly.

Scott came back to himself with a start. "What?"

Remy uttered a snort. "Uh huh. Put de grand plans f' stormin' de White House or whatnot away, Fearless. We got more than enough on our plates as it is."

Scott grimaced, chagrined. He had been letting his imagination run away with him, though he hadn't _actually_ been thinking of paying the President a visit. He sighed as reality returned, heavy as a lead weight resting between his shoulder blades. He picked up his drink. "Politics is an entirely self-serving entity. I guess if enough people take up the cause of mutant rights, we'll have champions coming out of the woodwork without us doing a thing."

Remy nodded. "F' now, de best t'ing we can do is t' keep bloodying Bastion's nose." He tipped his head toward the laptop where Trish continued to detail events from around the country. "An' makin' sure Ms. Tilby broadcasts it t' the world."

Scott raised his glass in a silent salute. "I guess I can drink to that."

#-#-#-#

Jubilee crawled away from the burning wreckage of the ship, her breath coming in ragged gasps. One leg was a twisted mess of raw flesh and shattered bone. She dragged that leg behind her as she crawled toward the shelter of the nearest building. Someone would come to investigate the crash. She had to disappear before they got there, or OZT would find her. So she forced herself to keep moving despite the searing pain in her chest where the restraints had cut into her, and the total agony of her ruined leg.

_Just make it into the building,_ she told herself. _That's one step closer to Wolverine_. For a while she allowed herself to fantasize that Wolvie was, in fact, waiting just inside for her with his scratchy, rumbling voice and strong hands. She would even be grateful to smell his nasty cigar-breath.

The fantasy lasted until she reached the edge of the loading dock adjoining the building. A set of cement stairs on each end of the dock led up to its surface, where a series of rolling doors, like metal garage doors, marched down the side of the building.

Faintly, Jubilee heard sirens. Frantic, she started up the shallow flight of stairs, but the pain in her leg from trying to lever herself upward was enough to choke the breath out of her. Even so, she tried to climb, until her vision whited out and her arms shook too badly to hold her weight up. She simply couldn't go any farther. She sagged against the stairs and laid her head down. The rough cement pressed against her cheek, but she hardly felt it.

The sound of sirens grew into a deafening wail. A fire truck and a police car pulled up a short distance from the wreckage, their lights flashing. The sirens abruptly cut out as the two vehicles came to a stop, and Jubilee breathed a sigh of relief. Men poured out of the vehicles, moving about in the familiar purposeful chaos of first responders.

_Don't see me_, she begged them silently. _Please don't see me._

She wasn't that lucky. "Hey, I got one over here!" she heard one of the men shout, and then footsteps crunched hurriedly across the pavement toward her. A man in yellow firefighters' overalls and a blue FDNY t-shirt bent over her, medic's kit in one hand.

"Honey, can you hear me?" he asked. Jubilee felt his fingers at her throat, checking her pulse. "My name's Mike. I'm with the fire department. You're going to be all right." He set down his kit and opened it.

"Don't take me back there," Jubilee begged him. Her voice barely rose above a whisper. "Please, don't take me back."

Mike paused to look at her. "Don't take you back where, honey?"

Jubilee didn't answer. She was too afraid to name OZT, as if the label might give Bastion ownership of her once again.

A second fireman jogged over and knelt beside Jubilee. "I called for a bus," he told Mike. He was a severe-looking man, all straight lines and sharp angles, but when his gaze fell on Jubilee, he smiled a genuine smile. "Can you tell me your name?" he asked. His eyes were as blue as Logan's.

"Jubilation," she rasped before she could stop herself. "Jubilation Lee."

"Well, Jubilation, that's a pretty name," the blue-eyed man said. "Were you flying that aircraft over there?" he nodded toward the burning wreck, which the other firemen had begun spraying with water from a hose.

Jubilee didn't answer. If they knew she'd been in the shuttle, they'd realize where she'd come from. At least they seemed to think it was an airplane rather than a spacecraft. She felt gentle fingers exploring her injuries.

The blue-eyed man leaned down to stare directly into her face, his expression intense. "Jubilation, this is very important. Was there anyone else aboard the plane when it crashed?"

Jubilee wanted to say yes, so they would leave her alone to go looking for other survivors, but then if they got hurt, it would be her fault. _An X-Man wouldn't risk their lives like that,_ she thought. Slowly, she shook her head.

"All right," the blue-eyed man said with another smile. "You're doing just fine, Jubilation."

The two firemen fitted a brace around her neck, and then began strapping her onto a flat, hard board. As the first strap began to tighten, Jubilee panicked. With a shriek of pure terror, she surged off the board and onto the steps, fighting to haul herself upward, away from them.

Immediately, big, strong arms caught her, wrapped her up. "Whoa! Easy, there, honey." She heard Mike's voice in her ear. "You're okay. No one's going to hurt you now. I promise."

The burst of adrenaline energy drained out of Jubilee as quickly as it had come. She wanted to struggle-- to kick and scratch-- anything to make them let go of her, but she just didn't have the strength. Instead, she began to cry.

She didn't resist as they carried her down the steps and away from the wreckage. They set her down with a tiny jolt that nevertheless felt like someone was driving steel pins into her leg. She cried out in pain, and immediately one of the firemen stroked her hair in a comforting gesture.

"Mike, take a look at this." The note of alarm in the blue-eyed man's voice made Jubilee's insides go cold with terror. The hand left her hair.

Jubilee lifted her head to look down her body toward where the two were leaning over her leg, their expressions intent.

"What _is_ that?" Mike asked incredulously. "A fungus?" He used one gloved hand to prod a spot on her leg, and to Jubilee's surprise, she barely felt it.

The blue-eyed man shook his head as a new siren picked up in the distance. "I've seen this before. They're nannites." He shook his head sadly. "No wonder she's terrified." He pointed to a different place on her leg. "See the metal bracer there where it attaches to the knee? This is Sentinels tech."

_Sentinels?_ The word spun sickeningly through Jubilee's mind. _Is that what they did to me?_

The wailing siren resolved itself into an ambulance. It halted next to the police car, and the siren mercifully cut out. The EMTs jumped out and fetched their gurney from the back, which they brought over to where Jubilee lay.

The blue-eyed fireman immediately caught the senior EMT by the arm. "Take this one to O-MOM," he commanded. "There's a Doc Reyes there. Make sure she goes to Reyes and nobody else."

The EMT nodded, taken aback. "Sure thing, buddy."

Jubilee began to lose track as the two EMTs cut apart her prison jumper and began to apply bandages to her wounds. The world around her took on an oddly two-dimensional quality and began to waver. Sounds dulled, acquiring strange echoes until she could no longer understand what the men were saying. After a bit she forgot why she cared. She was vaguely aware as they loaded her into the back of the ambulance, and after that, nothing.

#-#-#-#

Remy woke to the sound of someone banging on his door. He groaned as his head began to throb in time to the noise. He had no idea what time it was--he rarely did, since he couldn't read clocks anymore--but he knew he couldn't have been sleeping for more than an hour or so by the way he felt.

_I swear, de complex better be on fire,_ he thought uncharitably toward whoever was out there. There were precious few people who would dare to disturb the Guildmaster in his own quarters, and those that would, had the sense not to wake him over trivialities.

Feeling the first stirrings of alarm, he sat up and fished a pair of jeans out from beneath the bed. Inside the Guild complex he never wore anything besides a suit unless he was going to work out, but in the privacy of his personal suite he still preferred more casual clothes.

Barefoot and shirtless, Remy padded to the door and threw it open. "What is it?"

Bobby stood outside the door. Remy could see the other man's heart racing, and his own warning instincts came alive. Bobby was not the kind to panic over something little.

"Remy, we've got big problems," Bobby said, his voice low and fierce. He held something in one hand that he waved in Remy's general direction. From the sound, Remy guessed it was a piece of paper.

"What is dat?" Remy forced himself to keep his cool. He leaned one shoulder against the door jamb and nodded toward the paper.

"It's a copy of a photograph." Frustration colored the other man's voice. "Someone found out about you and Rogue."

The bottom dropped out of Remy's stomach. He reeled, fighting nausea as one of his worst fears was abruptly realized. "How many people know?" he asked, the taste of bile rising in the back of his throat.

Bobby shook his head. "It's all over the Guild. Why do you think I'm pounding on your door at 2:00am? You've got to get a jump on this thing. Come morning, it's going to explode."

Remy didn't get a chance to respond as the door on the far side of his office swung open.

"I'm afraid it's already too late for that," Chess LaSalle said, his voice hard with real anger. Artur, Tom O'Shane and Adrian Tyre stood behind him. Remy read disappointment and anger from all of them save Adrian, whose heat signature glowed with satisfaction.

Remy held on to his composure by pure force of will. But inside, he was raging. It had to have been Adrian. The man was just too smug not to have had a hand in it. Remy had no idea what exactly was in the photo Bobby held. He knew it couldn't be too risqué, but it was obviously enough to expose his lie, and now everything he had worked so hard to build was going to collapse for the sake of a single secret.

Bobby stepped back, out of the way, as the four men approached Remy.

"You had an obligation to tell us about your relationship with this woman, Guildmaster." Artur's soft voice held a note of betrayal that cut Remy deeply. No matter how hard he worked or how much he sacrificed, it was always the things he couldn't afford to admit that people judged him on.

Remy gathered his wits. He felt acutely underdressed standing there in nothing but a pair of ratty jeans, unprepared to face their accusations, but he didn't have any choice.

"I know," he answered Artur. "It was hard enough t' convince de council an' de Guild t' ally wit' de X-Men as it was." As he spoke, the remaining members of the council entered the room. Some, Remy was certain from the way they moved, had been gotten out of bed as recently as himself. He turned his attention back to Artur. "If y'd known about Rogue, dere's no way de X-Men would have been allowed into the complex."

"And that justifies lying to this council, not to mention every single member of the Guild and clans?" Adrian's voice reeked of wounded sincerity.

Remy didn't look at Adrian, but instead kept his attention on Chess and Artur. If he couldn't win them over, he was truly sunk. "I omitted a very inconvenient fact," he qualified. "Because de alliance wit' de X-Men was too important t' risk." He resisted the urge to run his hands through his hair in pure frustration. "De relationship ended de moment de X-Men set foot inside de complex."

Adrian cocked his head. "Oh, I'm certain you were smart enough not to take her to your bed _here_, but I very much doubt the relationship is over." The nameless colors that made up his face twitched in a way that made Remy suspect he was smiling-- or smirking, more like.

"What makes you say that?" Chess asked before Remy could come up with a response.

Adrian turned to look at the other council members. "Surely the council has noticed how Rogue has been positioning herself within the clans. She's already involved in two-thirds of the responsibilities normally taken up by the Guildmistress."

Remy nearly burst out laughing at that, but managed to contain it to a pained snort. "Whatever Rogue has gotten involved in," he explained when the council members all looked at him, "it's because she wants t' help people, not 'cause she's tryin' t' _position_ herself f' anyt'ing. She's not dat conniving." He forbore mentioning the fact that Rogue hated the Guild and had made it clear she didn't want to have anything to do with it once OZT was gone. It certainly wouldn't help his case. And the implied insult to the Guild would only make things worse.

"So you say," Adrian answered smoothly. "But I don't think your word is going to be sufficient this time."

Remy's eyes narrowed. He itched to simply reach out and kill the man where he stood, but he knew that was a stupid, selfish impulse. Instead, he shifted against the doorframe and crossed his arms. "What kind o' proof are y' lookin' for, Adrian? De X-Men came here in de hopes o' bein' able t' find a real way t' fight Bastion an' OZT. Their actions speak for dem."

If possible, Adrian's tone became even more smug. "It's your actions that concern me, Guildmaster."

Chess held up a hand to forestall Adrian before he could say anything more, but his gaze remained on Remy. "This can't be ignored, Guildmaster."

Remy bit back a sigh. "What are y' planning t' do?"

Chess looked at the men around him. "The council will meet tomorrow to discuss it." His tone hardened. He started to turn his wheelchair away. "We'll let you know what we decide."


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29

Remy didn't move for a long time after the council members left. Bobby watched his friend in concern. Remy stared at the floor, eyes unfocused, and his brow drawn in a deep, pained furrow. His fingers flexed rhythmically against his biceps. He looked as shaken as Bobby had ever seen him.

"What do you want me to do, boss?" Bobby finally asked. He honestly hadn't considered just how bad the fallout would be if the Guild found out. There was a knot of fear in his stomach that had lodged there the moment he'd seen the picture of Remy and Rogue in the park.

Remy looked up, his red eyes forlorn and haunted. But the expression disappeared as soon as Bobby registered it, replaced by the familiar keen stare. "Wake Scott up an' tell him de bad news. An' den wake up Rogue an' make sure she doesn't get blindsided by this in de morning."

Bobby bit his lip at the thought of how Rogue would likely react. He didn't like being on the receiving end of her temper. But, he knew Remy couldn't do it, so it fell to him. "What should I tell her to say when people ask?"

Remy's shoulder's sagged. Bobby watched in dismay as he leaned his head against the door jamb and closed his eyes. "It don' matter, Bobby. Not'ing she says or doesn't say is gon' help." His eyes opened and he speared Bobby with a single, unrevealing stare. "Jus' tell her not t' lie. Whatever she says, it has t' be de truth."

"Right." Summoning a confident smile, he nodded. "I'm on it." He turned to go.

"An' Bobby?" Remy's voice stopped him before he'd gone more than a couple of steps.

"Yeah, boss?"

"There's a fair chance dis t'ing is gon' end wit' de X-Men being evicted from de guild complex." Something in his voice sent a chill down Bobby's spine. "Y' need to make sure Scott understands dat."

Bobby paused. There was a subtle warning in Remy's tone that he couldn't let pass. "So what's the worst case here?" he asked.

Remy slowly straightened. "You know what de punishment is for exposing de Guild to outsiders." Pushing himself away from the door jamb, he turned and walked back into his quarters. The whip scars across his back stood out in sharp relief, reminding Bobby forcibly of how much he had already paid for defying Guild law.

Bobby stood silently after the door had swung shut behind Remy. Artur's words from that day echoed in his head. When no harm to the Guild was intended or incurred, the penalty was what Remy had endured. But when there was a perceived threat to the Guild, the only penalty was death.

Bobby turned on his heel and strode out of the Guildmaster's office. He needed to warn the X-Men of the danger they were in.

#-#-#-#

Bobby looked up at the sound of the Black's front door opening. The sound seemed inordinately loud in the tense atmosphere.

"Bad news," Marcus announced grimly as he walked into his family's quarters.

After Bobby had gotten Scott and Jean out of bed, he'd simply taken them with him to the Blacks'. Now he and Diedre, along with Scott, Jean, Rogue, Marcus and Andrea, all huddled in the Blacks' small living room to discuss the X-Men's options.

Marcus crossed the room and flopped down on the couch beside his wife. "The council has already given orders to the sentries not to let the X-Men out of the complex."

Marcus reached over to stroke his son's back, where the baby rested on his wife's shoulder. All of the commotion in the middle of the night had awakened both infants. Bobby still needed someone to tell him which of the twins was which, but Andrea had one of the babies asleep on her shoulder, and the other lay on his stomach across Rogue's knees, gurgling happily as she bounced him. Clarissa, too, had gone back to sleep in Diedre's lap, the blue hand towel she'd appropriated as her special blanket clutched in one little hand.

Scott's expression closed in on itself. "So the X-Men are effectively prisoners."

Marcus nodded. "At least until this thing plays out."

Bobby suppressed a shiver. "Did you get a sense of how the Guild is taking it?" he asked.

"We already knew about where the faction lines would fall." Marcus shrugged. "Many of the thieves respect the X-Men and they like what we've managed to accomplish through the alliance. That's not really the issue here."

"Sugah, the issue is _me_." Rogue looked up briefly, her green eyes flashing. Bobby didn't know what to make of her reaction yet. He'd expected a tirade when he explained the scandal that now rocked the Guild, but what he'd gotten was prickly silence. It made him nervous.

Scott leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "I can't say I really understand why this is such a big deal." He made a vague gesture with one hand. "I realize it's technically a violation of your rules, but Rogue is an X-Man, and the Guild has already accepted our presence here."

"It has a lot more to do with the Guildmaster than it does Rogue," Andrea said. She turned a sympathetic look on the red-haired X-woman before returning her attention to Scott. "You have to understand Guild history to understand why it matters so much."

Carefully holding the baby, she adjusted one of the couch pillows behind her and then leaned back with a sigh. "The Guild has existed in one form or another for more than eight hundred years, and our political structure has changed very little in that time. The Guildmaster is, in effect, a king, with all the power and authority that entails."

Bobby listened to Andrea's explanation with great interest. He knew Guild history, at least the basic framework, but the way she spoke made it obvious she had a deep and richly detailed understanding of the subject. Which wasn't too surprising, he decided, coming from a Guildmaster's daughter.

"But, that much power always carries the risk of abuse," Andrea continued. "And, unfortunately, the Guild has a long history of Guildmasters bringing disaster on the guilds for the sake of foreign women."

The statement earned her a snort of bitter amusement from Rogue. "Is that what ah am?" Rogue asked at the other woman's questioning look.

Andrea shrugged. "Let me give you an example. In the late 1400s, the king of Moldavia-- which is now part of Romania-- struck a deal with the king of the gypsies, offering his youngest daughter to be the gypsy king's wife in return for the gypsies plying their trade against Moldavia's enemies and sparing the country any more predation."

"I assume these gypsies were really the Guild?" Scott asked.

Andrea nodded. "Yes, and their Guildmaster at the time was an incredibly talented thief, as well as being both aggressive and unconventional." Her mouth twisted in a wry smile. "Much like Guildmaster LeBeau, actually." She shook her head as if to dispel the thought. "Anyway, they were slowly stripping the kingdom down to the bone, which is why the king decided to sue for peace."

"So what happened?"

Andrea raised her eyebrows in an evaluating expression. "The Guildmaster married the king's daughter and took her into the thieves' world. History says he was completely besotted with her and refused to listen to any of his advisors' warnings." She shrugged. "Less than a year later, she killed him in his sleep and betrayed the guild's location to her father, the king, who sent soldiers to slaughter the gypsies. Only a handful of thieves survived."

Andrea swept her gaze around the group. "That's not the only example. I could name you several others. But the point here is that the Guild has good reason to be angry when their Guildmaster lies to them about an outside woman, regardless of the circumstances. In truth, if you asked them, I think a lot of the guildmembers and clan would agree that Rogue would make an excellent Mistress. It's not about that."

Rogue leaned forward and laid her head in her hand. Her thick hair tumbled down around her, obscuring her face. The baby in her lap grabbed a handful and shoved it in his mouth.

"This is all mah fault." Absently, she began extracting her hair from the baby's grip.

Bobby shook his head. "This is Guild politics, Rogue. You can't blame yourself."

She looked up at him, her expression fierce. "If ah hadn't been so stupidly stubborn about insistin' Remy give up his thievin' ways, ah would've already known about the Guild, right? I'd 've gotten a proper introduction a long time ago, an' none of this would be happenin'." She looked away, her voice trailing off into a despondant whisper. "Who knows, we might even have been married by now."

Bobby couldn't legitimately argue that one, and before he could think of something to say, Jean leaned over to lay a hand on Rogue's shoulder.

"I didn't know you two were talking marriage," she said sympathetically.

Rogue's head jerked up. "Oh yeah, didn't ah tell ya? That was the gist of our little break-up talk." The sarcasm in her voice was thick enough to cut. She sniffed mightily, as if trying to hold back tears. "'So sorry, Rogue. I was hopin' t' marry y', but y' wouldn't stop bein' an' idiot an' now it's too late.'" She mimicked Remy's Cajun accent with frightening accuracy.

Bobby could only stare at her, overwhelmed by the tragedy of it all. She'd finally come around-- finally been willing to see Remy for what he was rather than blaming him for what he wasn't. But it was too late to matter.

"There has to be something we can do," he found himself saying.

Marcus spread his hands, looking as helpless and Bobby felt. "The council will make its decision in the next couple of days. We just have to hope they decide to err on the side of caution. If they decide to remove the Guildmaster…" He trailed off with a shrug.

Scott gave Bobby a questioning look, and Bobby's gut clenched. "They could decide to kill him, Scott," he explained. "You don't forcibly remove a Guildmaster from power any other way."

Rogue's sharp intake of breath punctuated his statement, but she didn't say anything.

Scott and Jean exchanged alarmed looks before Scott turned back to the group. "If worst comes to worst, they'll try to kill all of the X-Men, too, right? Because we're outsiders?"

Bobby didn't miss the emphasis on the word "try". He knew neither Scott nor the other X-Men would give up without a fight, and the idea of the two groups—both of which Bobby considered family—in a battle to the death terrified him.

Marcus held up a forestalling hand. "Don't panic yet. A lot of people believe in the alliance and the X-Men, regardless of what they think about the Guildmaster. Let Bobby and I talk to some people. No matter what happens, we can probably get the X-Men out safely as long as we keep our heads."

Bobby nodded his agreement, a list of names already forming in his mind. They would have to be very careful to make sure Adrian's faction didn't catch wind of their plans, but it could be done.

He hoped.

#-#-#-#

Jubilee woke to the soft shine of overhead fluorescent lights and a familiar, though not immediately identifiable, beeping. To her surprise, she found herself lying on a soft surface-- a bed, she realized after a moment. A standard hospital bed. Tears pricked her eyes. How long had it been since she'd lain on anything besides the cold metal floor of her prison cell? A hospital gown covered her body, the faded cloth decorated in a cutesy duck motif.

Jubilee nearly laughed at that. After everything she'd been through, they'd put her in Pediatrics?

Turning her head, she took stock of her new surroundings. Her bed sat in a little alcove made entirely of rolling curtain racks. An IV stand stood to one side of the bed, and a squat machine that looked like the heart monitor thingies they always used on t.v. sat on the other. That was the source of the beeping. Jubilee watched the scrolling traces for a moment, oddly reassured. She was still alive. The heart monitor was attached to a clip that covered the tip of her right index finger, and the IV feed was taped to the inside of the opposite arm.

Everything seemed so normal. So why was it so quiet? And why did the room smell like mold as well as antiseptic?

Before she had time to do much more than form the uneasy questions, a woman dressed in hospital scrubs walked in. She looked to be in her early forties, with a few streaks of gray in her short brown hair and a striking air of professionalism.

She smiled when she saw Jubilee, but it seemed like more of a reflex than from any genuine emotion. "Hello, there. You're awake." She walked over to the bed and picked up Jubilee's hand to take her pulse.

"Where am I?" Jubilee asked. The woman-- nurse, she supposed-- wore a set of ID badges on a lanyard around her neck, but Jubilee couldn't quite catch the name of the hospital printed across the topmost.

The nurse didn't look up from her watch as she counted. "Our Mother of Mercy hospital in New York." She finished taking Jubilee's pulse and laid her hand back down on the blanket. "My name's Terry, by the way. I'm one of the nurses who will be taking care of you."

Jubilee looked down at herself, her eyes drawn automatically to the outline of her legs beneath the blanket. She was in surprisingly little pain. Her chest and leg ached a little bit, but that was all.

"Am I going to be all right?"

Terry gave her another of those professional smiles. "You're going to be fine. The nannites will see to that." She gave a little shrug. "All we really have to do is keep you warm and hydrated. Your colony will take care of the rest."

"_Colony?_" It came out as a frightened squeak, and the nurse's expression softened.

"Yes, hon. The nannites. You do understand that you're a pre-transformation prime sentinel, don't you?"

She'd had her suspicions, of course, but the matter-of-fact way Terry said the words made it impossible for Jubilee to hide from the knowledge any longer. Slowly, she nodded, but inside she wanted to scream.

Terry patted her arm sympathetically. "I'm sorry."

"What's going to happen to me?" Jubilee couldn't look the other woman in the face. Instead, she stared at her hands.

Terry let out her breath in a whoosh. "Well, now that you're conscious we'll start mapping the control network inside your brain and see how much of it we may be able to disconnect."

Instinctively, Jubilee raised a hand to her head, the first stirrings of hope in her heart. "You can do that?"

Terry's voice was studiously neutral. "We've had some successes, yes."

For the moment, Jubilee didn't care to ask any more. Other, more pressing, questions crowded to the forefront of her mind. "Is there… is there a phone I could use? I need to call my friends… let them know I'm still alive." And more, she needed to know if they were still alive.

Terry shook her head. "I'm sorry, hon. The first thing we did when they brought you in here was to file a death certificate for you. We see enough dead sentinels these days that OZT doesn't insist on verifying them any more." She patted Jubilee's arm once more. "It's the only way to make sure OZT won't come looking for you."

#-#-#-#

For a long time after Scott, Jean, Bobby and Diedre left, Rogue sat curled up on one end of the Blacks' sofa, lost in thought. She didn't often wallow in self-recrimination, but her mind refused to quit turning through thoughts of the past, pinpointing so many, many different times she could have headed off their current crisis if she'd just been willing to _listen_ to what Remy was trying to tell her.

And now there was a real possibility that the man she loved-- still loved, despite everything-- would be dead in a few days because it.

She sighed. Not that Remy was blameless. He had a nasty tendency to keep his own counsel without regard for who else might be affected, and to lie to the people who trusted him when he felt the situation warranted it. In some ways, he was just as arrogant as the gypsy king Andrea had described, and for a moment she imagined him in the role, complete with a period outfit appropriate to the front cover of a romance novel. The little fantasy brought a smile to her face, but the expression quickly died.

No, the crux of the problem was her. Infuriating as the man could be, he'd done the best he could with what he had, and if she was going to fault him for anything, it would be for not having had the sense to give up on them a long time ago. She was the one who had, although unknowingly, rejected the Guild time and time again.

_Not that it did me any good._ The irony didn't escape her._ All those years ah spent insistin' ah would never go back to that life and here ah am, earnin' mah keep as a sniper, and up to mah neck in Guild politics besides._ Sighing, she ran a hand through her hair. _Ah might as well just take the oaths and be done with it. It would get Remy out of trouble, and it's not like ah would ever do anything to hurt these people, anyway._ All it would cost her was her vision of the future-- a future free of all of the dark things people like her mother and Remy were wrapped in. But what kind of future were they facing if they couldn't get rid of OZT?

Resolved, she stood and went looking for Andrea. She found her in the Blacks' bedroom. She had both of the boys lying on a blanket in the middle of the bed, and was dangling toys for them to grab at. She looked tired, but then it was hardly the crack of dawn and she'd already been up several hours.

"Hey, sugah, ah've got a question," Rogue said as she came over and took a seat on the opposite side of the bed. Andrea handed her one of the toys she'd been holding, which Rogue obligingly held out for the nearest baby. "Since you know so much about Guild law an' all."

Andrea looked up at her curiously. "Shoot," she said.

"What if ah came in ta the Guild?" She deliberately used the same phrasing Remy had used with her during their conversation in his office. "Wouldn't that fix everything?"

Andrea's expression sharpened. She straightened, the babies momentarily forgotten as she stared at Rogue. "I assume you mean by marrying the Guildmaster."

Rogue did her best to appear confident as she nodded. Andrea had no idea how utterly bizarre her relationship with Remy was, or the fact that she could count on one hand the number of times they'd kissed. For her, the idea of marriage was a bit like a beginning swimmer who, having just mastered the dog paddle, was now contemplating swimming the English Channel.

Andrea thought for several moments, her brown eyes dark and serious. "I don't think the council would allow it," she finally said.

"Why not?" Rogue swallowed hard, fighting to keep her stomach under control. Andrea's words had sunk into her belly like bricks, and now her insides churned with equal parts relief and dismay.

"Because the Guildmaster _lied_. And as much as he claims it served the greater good, there's too much self-interest there for people to be able to just let it go." She looked away, lips pressed in a thin line.

Rogue stared at her in surprise. "You're angry at him, too." She bit her lip. "But, you knew…"

Andrea made an impatient gesture. "Yes, I knew." She shook the rattle in her hand with extra force. "I don't know how much you know about our last Guildmaster…" She glanced at Rogue, who shrugged.

"Diedre's first husband." The image of Remy the way he'd looked when she'd arrived at the mansion rose in her mind. He'd come so close to dying, and the remembered fear still made her breath catch. "Remy killed him."

Andrea nodded. "Michael put his own self-interest above the good of the Guild. He nearly destroyed us. And we thought we'd found something different with Guildmaster LeBeau." She shrugged, but her gaze was hard. "We should have realized then-- after the fight with Michael-- that it wasn't going to be that way."

Rogue jumped up, real anger rising in her gut. "Now wait just a darned minute! How can ya possibly claim he was bein' selfish when he nearly got himself killed tryin' ta protect Bobby and Diedre?"

Andrea's expression didn't change. "But he put the Guild at risk in the process, for the sake of something that was important to _him_." She moistened her lips before continuing, "Look, Diedre is one of my best friends. I wouldn't have wanted her to die. But what the Guildmaster did was still wrong. He took a huge risk with all of our lives then, and he's doing it again now. And as much as I believe that OZT has got to be taken down, and that working with the X-Men may very well be the only way to make that happen, it doesn't change the fact that he had an obligation to his Guild that he ignored because it would have gotten in the way of his personal ambitions. He's a gambler, Rogue, heart and soul, and we--" she gestured broadly, "are the chips on the table. A lot of people chose him to be Guildmaster with the naïve belief that he could win every hand, but he just lost one, didn't he, and people are waking up to the fact that it's their lives on the line."

Rogue shook her head at the image Andrea painted for her. "Well, Remy's always been one ta burn the candle at both ends, an' if he could, he'd set fire to the middle." The corners of her mouth curled upward in a shadow of a smile. There was a part of her that loved his wild recklessness, even though the rest of her was terrified by it. "But y'all can't possibly just _overlook_ everythin' he's done ta protect ya… ta protect all of us-- both the Guild an' the X-Men."

Andrea sighed tiredly. "Of course not. But you can see why this is going to cause such a huge schism. There are plenty of people-- myself included-- who understand that this Guildmaster is still our best chance of survival, regardless of the risks. But there are just as many on the other side who are going to be crying out for blood, and for some kind of guarantee that this kind of thing will never happen again."

Quietly, Rogue settled herself on the edge of the bed again and went back to entertaining Daniel while her thoughts turned.

"So, worst case, they'll kill him, because that's about as guaranteed as it gets," she concluded. She had the sinking feeling that Remy would let them, too.

Andrea nodded. "Yes, though I honestly don't think it will come to that. There's no one to take his place, and the political chaos of losing a Guildmaster now would be disastrous in and of itself."

"So, what, then? Some kind of public censure?"

Andrea gave her a half-hearted shrug. "There will have to be, but I'm sure the council is going to be wrestling with that one for a while. It's got to be something that carries enough weight to reassure people that he'll think twice before doing something like this again, but we're talking about a man who shrugged off twenty lashes as the necessary cost of putting the alliance together."

Rogue crossed her arms over her breasts, hugging herself as a sudden chill swept through her. "Sugah, if ya want ta truly hurt Remy-- enough ta scare him inta behavin'--" she couldn't help the note of mockery in her voice, "ya do it through me."

Andrea's eyes widened in alarm, but almost immediately the expression morphed into a thoughtful frown. "Wait." Her gaze jerked to Rogue's, frightened but suddenly alive with unguessable possibilities. "Wait wait wait." She looked away from Rogue, her eyes darting back and forth across her inner landscape as her thoughts raced.

Rogue's throat went suddenly dry. "What are ya thinkin'?" she finally asked.

Andrea came back from wherever she'd been. "There's a Guild ritual--" she began, her voice full of hesitation. "It's old. I doubt it's been used in two-hundred years, at least…"

"And?" Rogue prompted when it didn't seem like she was going to continue. Her stomach felt like it had tied itself in a knot.

Andrea shook her head slowly. "It's pretty barbaric, even by Guild standards, and it wasn't exactly intended for this situation… but I think it would work." Her words picked up speed as she continued, as if she were slowly warming to the idea. "It would formalize the alliance, Adrian and his faction would get their pound of flesh, the Guildmaster would be censured, and it would pretty well guarantee he would never risk the Guild again to be with you." She arched both eyebrows. "He wouldn't need to."

Rogue's brow dipped as she tried to process the seemingly contradictory list. The knot of fear in her stomach tightened until she could taste bile in the back of her throat.

"Rogue." Andrea's voice was utterly serious.

Rogue looked up at her.

"Do you love him?"

Rogue opened her mouth to answer, but Andrea cut her off.

"I mean it. Do you _really_ love him?"

Taken aback by the intensity in the other woman's gaze, she could only nod. "Why?" she croaked.

Andrea's gaze speared her where she sat and left her breathless. "Because that pound of flesh I mentioned would have to be yours. You were exactly right when you said the way to get to him is through you. It's so obvious everyone in the Guild will be able to see it."

Rogue stared at her as her heart began to race. She was pretty sure Andrea had just told her there was a way to save Remy and the alliance if she was willing to pay the personal cost, whatever _that_ turned out to be. And she had never been one to flinch from doing what had to be done.

_Ah must be out of my mind,_ she thought as she gathered her composure.

Slowly, she straightened and raised her chin. "Ah think ya'd better start from the beginning, sugah," she told the other woman in the calmest voice she could muster.


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter 30

Remy watched the people filing into the Guild council chamber with a growing sense of dread. The council had made its decision, finally. And though he sat at the head of the table, he had no say in today's proceedings. He could only sit and listen… and accept.

His chest tightened as Scott, Ororo and Rogue filed in behind the last of the council members. Hopefully the X-Men's presence meant the council had decided to keep the alliance intact. That explained Scott and Ororo, at least. Rogue he was far less certain of, and the hard knot in his stomach tightened another notch. He desperately wished he could see her face, if only to know how much she blamed him for dragging her into his Guild mess. Her wild heat signature and rapidly beating heart only told him that her emotions were running high at the moment-- she had her body language under control, giving him little insight into what those emotions might be.

He made himself look away from Rogue. He had sworn an oath on his own blood to put his loyalty to the Guild above everything else, including the only woman he had ever truly fallen in love with. Despite that, he had held on to the hope that somehow, someday, he would be able to find the way to keep both in his life.

_Y' went all in an' y' lost, Remy. Face it. _And now he felt like there was an empty hole in the middle of his chest.

Remy buried that thought before it could swallow him. He couldn't afford those emotions right now.

He turned his attention back to the council members, who were settling into their seats. Everywhere he looked, Remy read anger, dismay, and a sense of grim resolution. Even Adrian and his lackey, Carson, were less than happy. They certainly didn't radiate the gloating satisfaction Remy would have expected had Adrian managed to turn the situation entirely to his benefit. He felt a small measure of relief. If Adrian wasn't coming away from this meeting with total victory then perhaps things were a little better than he'd feared.

_There's a chance y' might not die today after all,_ he told himself sarcastically. He honestly didn't know whether his death had been up for discussion. Surely the fact that he'd been _right_, time and time again, and had brought the Guild to ground before OZT could catch wind of their existence, had to count for something. Didn't it? The bitterness he tried to keep buried surged to the fore, filling his mouth with the taste of gall. What law of the universe stated that Remy LeBeau never, ever got to catch a break? Never got to make a mistake, or a questionable decision, and _not_ have to pay for it with blood and tears?

There was little conversation as the council members took their places. To Remy's surprise, Scott and Ororo had been given seats at the far end of the table, granting them status, in their positions as the X-Men's leaders, equal to that of the men they faced. The arrangement had all the hallmarks of a negotiation. Rogue stood behind the two X-Men, a hand on the back of either chair.

Scott and Ororo waited quietly in their places. And, though he could read a mass of restrained anger from Cyclops, he sensed no curiosity from either of them and only a little apprehension, making him think that, whatever was about to happen, it had been worked out in advance.

_So, the council will be observin' de forms of a negotiation, but all the decisions have been made already._ The conclusion made him painfully aware that he was probably the only person in the room who did _not_ already know what the council had decided.

At the midpoint of the table, Artur Valencia stood and the room immediately grew silent. Usually, it was the Guildmaster's place to call the meeting to order.

Artur turned to Remy. "With your permission, Guildmaster?"

Remy gripped the armrests of his chair so hard his knuckles began to ache, but he nodded.

Artur looked toward the far end of the table. "The Guild council welcomes the X-Men," he said with all appearance of sincerity, "and looks forward to a long and mutually rewarding relationship."

He received a nod of acknowledgment from Scott, and Ororo's graceful "We are honored," in response, and Remy felt a hot rush of relief. He forced his hands to unclench. They were going to keep the alliance intact. That alone was worth anything they decided to do to him.

Artur went on. "Until now, the alliance between our two groups has been an unofficial one, but, in light of recent events it has become necessary for a formal agreement to be struck." Several of the council members' gazes turned toward Remy, which he returned evenly. He would not show regret. Not when he had made the best choice he could, given the circumstances.

Artur glanced down at Chess LaSalle, who sat beside him, and then to the X-Men seated at the far end of the table. "The Thieves Guild has made many alliances throughout the centuries, with kings, with clans, and with other organizations whose interests have paralleled our own. The strength of these relationships, we have learned, cannot be spelled out in laws or treaties, but is born of the human bond between our peoples. And the greatest bond that ties people together is family."

At the opposite end of the table, Rogue was nodding her head in unconscious agreement. Remy found her reaction puzzling in the extreme. He didn't know why she was there to begin with, which made him nervous, and she seemed too calm, too collected, for anything the council could reasonably have decided.

Artur braced his fingertips against the table. "Therefore, as we forge this new alliance with our friends, the X-Men, we must also join together as family—one blood, one purpose, for the good of all."

Warning bells began to ring in Remy's mind. He'd heard this speech before, in New Orleans, on the day the Thieves Guild and Assassins tried to make peace. His stomach lurched.

Artur went on, heedless of his discomfort. "In all of human history, family has been built through marriage. We shall be no different." He gestured to include all of the people seated at the table. "To this end, the Guild council requests the hand of Rogue, daughter of the X-Men, to be given in marriage to the Guildmaster of New York, to seal the pact between us."

Remy heard the words, but could hardly believe them. He turned an incredulous look on Artur. His relationship with Rogue lay at the center of their current problems-- more specifically, the fact that he'd lied about his relationship with Rogue. He couldn't imagine the council, or the Guild for that matter, allowing that relationship to be legitimized.

He tried to catch hold of the sudden hope that wanted to leap up inside him. It couldn't be that simple. In his experience, nothing ever was.

"The X-Men have no objections," Scott said stiffly. His heat signature flared, making it obvious to Remy that he was lying. But whatever his objections, he wasn't going to voice them. Ororo's reaction was far more subdued. Her signature shifted as well, but it was more a flicker of resignation, as if she were deeply uncertain about the wisdom of this course, but could offer nothing better to replace it.

Remy's instincts began to scream. Behind the two X-Men, he could see Rogue's fingers flexing rhythmically on the backs of their chairs. He stared at the mottled infrared colors that made up her face, wishing desperately that he could see her expression. Something about this situation was deeply, deeply wrong.

Bracing himself, Remy cleared his throat, gaining the instant attention of the entire room. He kept his attention focused on the woman across from him. "Rogue?" he asked quietly. "Is dis what you want?" Surrounded by the Guild council, he couldn't say any of the things that crowded on his tongue, but he needed _something_. Anything that would give him some understanding of why she was there.

Rogue shifted her weight, her stance odd… brittle. But when she spoke, her voice held its usual honeyed warmth. "It is, sugah."

The brief assurance sent a burst of warmth through Remy. She was his fondest, most treasured dream and despite his misgivings about the entire situation, hearing her state so clearly that she wanted to be with him made his heart want to soar.

Artur watched their short exchange in silence then rapped his knuckled lightly on the table top. Remy tore his gaze away from Rogue.

Artur surveyed the table, his expression invisible to Remy's limited sight. "However," the thief said in his quiet voice, "regardless of how beneficial this alliance, the Guild's first responsibility must be to the safety of its members. The entirety of Guild law and practice is aimed at guaranteeing this, as much as is humanly possible." Artur paused, and for the first time Remy heard hesitation in his voice. "To that end, no stranger can be brought into the Guild without the proper forms and rituals."

Remy bit his lip. He'd blown the proper forms and rituals out of the water when he'd brought the X-Men into the Guild complex, and would wear the scars from that choice for the rest of his life. And, unfortunately, there was no way to wind back the clock in an attempt to apply those proper procedures to Rogue.

Artur's thoughts seemed to follow the same path as his own. "In other circumstances, the Guild would welcome Rogue with open arms and great affection, but we cannot because she was brought here under false pretenses. The rituals by which we safeguard our people's futures cannot be applied now." He looked toward Remy, the set of his shoulders betraying reluctance. "So we have had to dig well into the past for the means to bridge the gap between our peoples-- older laws and rites by which a woman not of the clans can be brought into the Guild." He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. "By force, rather than a choice freely made."

It took Remy a couple of seconds to sort through the vast library of Guild history in his head and find the rites Artur alluded to. The Guild didn't use coercion. Entry was always a matter of choice. Except for one circumstance: To protect itself from betrayal by a woman who entered the Guild solely as a token of the treaty struck between her people and the thieves, the Guild had resorted to a combination of physical and mental torture to break that woman's will to the point that she would not dare act against the Guild.

Remy shot to his feet, horrified. "Y' can't be serious!" He looked around the table, at the men to whom he was beholden as their Guildmaster. "This is insane! Rogue's no threat t' the Guild, you _know_ that. How can y' even be suggestin' dis?"

Artur was a well-trained thief. He did not react visibly to the outburst, but Remy saw his core temperature spike. "When our Guildmaster sees fit to disregard all of the normal, _humane_ rules the Guild has put in place for such situations," Artur said in a deathly cold voice, "we have no choice."

Understanding hit Remy with the force of a blow. His knees gave out on him and he collapsed into his chair, hardly able to breathe through the pain in his gut. They would follow Guild law to the letter in order to preserve the alliance with the X-Men, and they would hurt Rogue to punish _him_ for putting the Guild in such an untenable situation in the first place. And the worst part of it was, he couldn't do anything about it. His hands balled into fists beneath the table as a wave of impotent fury threatened to swamp him.

Artur's cold tone softened, but remained underlain with steel. "You have said it yourself, Guildmaster. Guild law stands."

Remy couldn't force himself to look toward the far end of the table. "An' de X-Men have agreed?" he asked Artur instead, his voice faint. For once, he missed Cyclops' inflexible moral code. Surely the other man could not stand by and let this happen without a fight?

"Sugah, let's make one thing crystal clear here," Rogue said into the stillness that followed, and Remy turned involuntarily to look at her. He couldn't see her stare, but he could feel it, a firm, determined gaze that her body language echoed. "Ah'm here because ah choose t' be."

Remy shook his head in unconscious denial. The Guild was _his_ world, _his_ burden, and she had never wanted a part in it. He would have been willing to let the Guild kill him for defying the laws yet again, but instead they had arranged to give him everything that was important to him, for a price he couldn't bear to pay.

_That_ was how they would punish him. And Remy wasn't sure he would ever be willing to risk crossing the Guild again.

But, he reflected bitterly, that was the point.

Remy tried to gather his wits as Scott leaned forward and laid both hands on the table. "I am going to make on one stipulation, though, in addition to what we discussed," the X-Men's field leader said.

Heads turned sharply to look at him, but Scott didn't appear intimidated as he met the councilor's stares. "I want a time limit on this…" he waved a hand in Rogue's direction. "Whatever it is." Remy heard the note of discomfort in his voice, quickly buried. "Rogue is an X-Man, and my responsibility. I won't turn her over to you without some kind of guarantee that her… suffering…" He sounded like he might choke on the word, "will be limited."

Artur turned to his fellow councilors, gathering their opinions through a silent exchange of glances, before returning his attention to Scott. "We had come to a similar conclusion ourselves," he said. He raised his head a fraction, including Rogue in his gaze. "This council acknowledges that Rogue is an ally and not a threat to the Guild. We will observe the old forms because it is necessary." His tone hardened, and the pain in Remy's gut intensified. Necessary because of him, Artur meant.

Artur didn't look at his Guildmaster as he continued. "However, we will agree to a time limit of three days, and you have my word, as well as that of the council as a whole, that she will not be seriously harmed."

Rogue nudged the back of Scott's chair and he blew out his breath in a frustrated sigh. "I suppose that will have to be good enough," he said.

"Then we are agreed?" Artur asked.

Scott levered himself to his feet. "We're agreed," he said.

#-#-#-#

For Rogue, the reality of the situation didn't set in until Adrian came and bound her arms behind her in a set of heavy iron manacles and then led her from the room. Of course it would be Adrian, she reminded herself as the first tendrils of real fear squirmed in her belly. He was the undisputed head of Remy's opposition, and would be allowed this one clear shot at the Guildmaster without fear of reprisal.

Rogue bit her lip. Remy. The look on his face when he'd figured out what form his censure would take would haunt her for a long time. She didn't think she'd ever seen so much pain in his eyes. And she was the one who had handed the Guild the tools to hurt him.

_Ah'll just have to make it up to him once this is all over,_ she promised herself, though she shied instinctively from the details of what that might entail. She wasn't ready to go there yet, even inside her own mind. And besides, she had to survive the next few days first, before she had any business thinking about her future with Remy.

Adrian steered her through a nondescript doorway into a stairwell, his fingers digging painfully into her arm. A single bare bulb hung from the ceiling, casting stark light. Carson and Artur followed them. The stairs went down about fifteen feet, ending in another, similar door. Rogue hadn't known there were levels to the Guild complex below the main one, and she looked around curiously as they descended. The walls were damp and streaked with lichen, and the air had a cloying, rotten smell to it.

Adrian opened the far door and hauled her into a new hallway. Rogue's shoes squished in about a half-inch of slippery muck that coated the floor, and she guessed this level saw a fair amount of seepage from the river, which no doubt explained why it had been abandoned. They paused there, with the light from the open door at their back as the only illumination until Artur drew several long tubes from inside his suit jacket and cracked them over his knee. The tubes began to glow a bright, fluorescent green as the chemicals inside them activated.

Carson let the door to the stairwell swing shut, and Rogue suppressed a shiver. There apparently wasn't any electricity down here, she concluded, though she saw brackets at even intervals along the wall that might have been intended to hold torches once upon a time. Adrian propelled her down the hall. Empty doorways opened at regular intervals, yawning like vast black mouths. A few had the rotted remains of doors covering them, attached with rusted iron hinges.

After a short distance, Adrian turned her into one such doorway. This one's door was intact, though it looked as old and rotten as the rest. He pushed it open in a screech of metal and shoved her inside. Rogue staggered forward into the darkness. The three men entered the room behind her, bringing the light with them. Rogue had a brief impression of bare stone walls, streaked with water stains. A heavy, brand new chain was attached to a large bolt in the floor, its links running with quicksilver reflections.

Rogue caught her balance after a few steps and turned to face Adrian. He backhanded her across the mouth. Her face exploded with pain as she fell onto the slime-covered stone, landing hard on her side. Rogue grunted, tasting blood, and felt the warm tingle of adrenaline coursing through her system. All of her instincts told her to get back on her feet, to fight, but she stayed where she was, breathing heavily and waiting for whatever Adrian might do next.

He walked over to where she lay and she tensed, anticipating a kick. But instead, he reached down and hauled her effortlessly to her feet. Rogue was dismayed by how much the unconscious show of strength unnerved her. With their expensive suits and slick manners, it was easy to forget that these men were thieves, some of the best in their Guild. And Adrian was not a small man. He had a good six inches and eighty pounds on her, and the physical demands of his profession meant he would be able to apply that advantage to its maximum extent.

Rogue closed her eyes for a moment, trying to gather her courage. She had chosen to walk into this situation, but it scared her to realize that she probably couldn't escape it now, even if she wanted.

Adrian pulled the key to her manacles out of his pocket and unlocked her wrists. Rogue watched him warily as she rubbed the feeling back into her hands, and then massaged her bruised shoulder where she'd landed.

The manacles jangled in Adrian's hands as he folded the metal links up into an easily-held bundle. "Strip," he told her harshly.

Rogue caught her breath in surprise and then looked past him to Artur, certain the other man would object. But though Artur's eyes narrowed, he said nothing.

The faintest hint of a smile lit Adrian's face. "You can do it yourself, or I can do it for you." His smile widened. "Lady's choice."

Rogue stared into his dark, remorseless eyes, feeling ill. _What have ah gotten mahself into?_ She knew he couldn't be planning to rape her. That fell well and truly outside the boundaries of this little agreement, and he had to know his life would be forfeit if he did. Remy would kill him, if her mother or Logan didn't beat him to it. But the thought wasn't quite as reassuring as it should have been.

Slowly, Rogue reached for the hem of her sweater and pulled it off over her head. She carefully turned the garment right side out and handed it to Carson. Her shoes and socks followed, and finally, her jeans. She stood in front of the three men in nothing but her bra and panties, her toes squishing in the frigid mud that covered the floor.

Squaring her shoulders, she nodded to the pile of clothing in Carson's arms. "Ah'd appreciate it if ya'd see to it those are cleaned an' put back with mah stuff."

Adrian's smile turned dangerous. "Better watch your tone, girl. You aren't Guildmistress yet." He took two steps toward her and punched her hard in the stomach.

Rogue doubled over, gagging and clutching her stomach. Before she could recover, Adrian pulled her upright by her hair and dragged her over to the chain. There, he shoved her down on her knees and fastened her wrists into the cuffs at the end of the chain.

He stepped back, and for a moment Rogue simply stayed where she was and concentrated on breathing. She could feel blood welling from where the stone had torn the skin on her knees and her stomach felt like it was on fire. This wasn't the first time she'd endured a beating, by any means. Before she'd absorbed Carol Danvers' powers, she'd had occasion to be on the wrong end of any number of people's fists. But that had been a long time ago and she'd forgotten how much it hurt.

_Three days_, she reminded herself. She looked up at Adrian, only to find him watching her without expression. In the back of her mind, she knew her wisest course was probably to stay on the ground, curl up, and offer the least imposing target she could. But cowering simply wasn't in her.

Slowly, she climbed to her feet and turned to face Adrian once again.

#-#-#-#

Bobby rose warily from the couch in Remy's office as the Guildmaster stormed in, his face suffused with fury. Bobby's stomach did a savage flip. He could tell from Remy's expression that Rogue's plan had been put into action. Now there was nothing left but to deal with the fallout.

Several guildmembers congregated near the desk, either waiting for the chance to talk to him, or working on one of the ongoing issues the Guildmaster was involved in. They all looked up at his entrance, and conversation in the room died.

Remy stopped dead in the middle of the room. "Out," he growled, his tone openly threatening. Had their mutant powers been active, Bobby was certain his eyes would have been glowing in full-blown demonic hellfire mode.

The people filling the office wisely scattered, and within a few seconds the last of them had disappeared. Remy didn't move. He stood frozen, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his chest heaving.

The heavy office door swung shut, the click of the latch sounding ominous in the utter stillness. Bobby braced himself.

Remy crossed to the desk and grabbed the first thing his hands encountered, which happened to be someone's half-empty coffee cup. With a cry of rage, he hurled it toward the far corner of the room, where the wet bar stood. The mug slammed into a shelf full of liqueurs, shattering everything in an explosion of glass and porcelain shards that made Bobby flinch even though he was out of range. A paperweight followed, and a calculator, and then Remy's 9mm Glock went spinning away in a different direction.

That one alarmed Bobby, but the weapon didn't discharge as it clattered against the paneled wall and fell to the carpet. Remy didn't pause. He swept the surface of the desk with an inarticulate roar, sending documents, drawings and even one of the laptops crashing to the floor.

Then, without warning, the fight seemed to drain out of him. Remy sagged against the edge of the desk and covered his eyes with one hand. Bobby could see him trembling.

Silent as only a trained thief could be, Bobby went over to the bar, picking his way carefully through the glass. The items stored beneath the counter were still intact, and he grabbed a glass and the first bottle he came to, which happened to be a dark Kentucky whiskey. He poured a healthy dose into the glass and brought it to Remy.

"Here. Drink this." He shoved the glass at his friend.

Remy barely glanced at him, but he grabbed the proffered glass, roughly sloshing its contents, and drained it in a single swallow. Bobby saw him bite his lip as the alcohol burn hit. He lowered the glass, fingering it in absent fashion, his eyes focused straight ahead. Then, with the snap of his wrist, that glass, too, went screaming across the room in one of Remy's hundred-mile-an-hour throws to shatter against the far wall.

"You want another one?" Bobby asked without sarcasm. If it would help, he would be happy to keep handing Remy glass after glass and letting him break them. And if he could manage to get him drunk in the process, so much the better. It would at least blunt the leading edge of the pain, and give Remy the chance to acclimate.

Remy nodded, and Bobby went to fetch another glass. His own emotions were locked away, invisible. Remy needed him to be strong right now-- strong and sane-- and able to prop him up for a while. He poured another generous amount into the second glass and handed it over.

Remy didn't seem inclined to smash this one, however. He turned and seated himself on the edge of the desk with the glass cradled in one hand. The other arm curled around his midsection as if he were nursing an injury, and he sipped the whiskey with empty eyes. Bobby joined him, setting the bottle down on the desk on his far side with a thunk.

"I don't know if it helps," Bobby ventured as the silence stretched, "but this was Rogue's show all the way. You should have heard her and Scott yelling at each other." He shook his head, letting a hint of amusement creep into his voice. "I haven't heard ol' Fearless lay into somebody like that in a _long_ time."

Remy snorted, though it sounded more pained than humorous. "Fat lot o' good it did him."

Bobby was cautiously pleased. That had sounded almost like the Remy he knew. "Yeah," he agreed. "But I've never met anyone yet that could out stubborn Rogue once she's made up her mind about something." He wiggled his eyebrows for effect. "Including you."

Remy's lips twisted in a sickly parody of a smile, and he raised his glass as if in a toast. "Mais oui." The admission seemed to take something out of him. His expression closed in on itself, collapsing under a weight of pain. He tossed back the remainder of his drink and held it out to Bobby to refill.

Bobby did so, several times, and for a while the room was quiet.

"Y' wan' know what's really funny?" Remy said at one point, when the bottle of whiskey was nearly empty. A faint slur marred his words.

"What's that?" Bobby asked quietly.

Remy scrubbed his face with one hand, leaving his hair in disarray. "When I left New Orleans, I _swore_ I'd never let de Guild force me into another arranged marriage." He made a helpless gesture with one hand, and Bobby saw the shine of angry tears in his eyes. "Merde. I should never 've brought de X-Men here, should never 've let _any_ o' you near de Guild--" He pressed the back of his wrist to his lips, shaking, and closed his eyes.

Bobby just shrugged. Remy's guilt complex didn't rear its head very often, but when it did, it was an ugly beast. "I don't have any regrets," he told Remy firmly. Which he didn't. None worth mentioning, anyway. "And I don't think Rogue will, either."

Remy's eyes flew open. "Den y' both fools," he said, his voice harsh.

Before Bobby could think of a response, he pushed off the edge of the desk, swaying ever so slightly, and set his glass aside. Then he knelt down and began gathering up the scattered papers on the floor.

Bobby stayed where he was and watched. "We may be fools," he agreed, "but you're stuck with us."

Remy came to his feet and whirled to face him, his stance furious. But even as Bobby tensed, Remy's anger seemed to shatter. He staggered, looking like he might simply collapse. Bobby leapt up to catch him in a tight hug.

Remy clung to him, his breathing a jagged wheeze that Bobby suspected was as close as he ever came to crying. "Adrian took her," he whispered into Bobby's shoulder. "An' there wasn't anyt'ing I could do."

Bobby felt the burn of tears in his own eyes, and blinked them back. "I know," he answered roughly. "I know."


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31

Jubilee held tightly to the bed rails as Terry wheeled her out of her cubby and down a long, cement hall. A bundle of cast iron and copper tubes ran along the ceiling, held in place with large metal brackets. Light came from a series of fluorescent lights that hung down below the tubes, but many of them were burned out or flickered badly. The walls were painted a dull, institutional gray. It didn't look like any hospital Jubilee had ever seen.

Terry maneuvered the bed into an elevator that had obviously been designed to transport them. The car was large and rectangular, and had doors on either end. Jubilee craned her head to look at the elevator buttons. The bottommost, labeled "B3" was lit, and as she watched, Terry punched "B1".

Several things clicked together in Jubilee's mind. "Why are we in the basement?" she asked.

The elevator doors slid shut, and with a smooth whir, the car began to rise. Terry glanced down at her. "We can't risk putting you with the other patients, hon."

Jubilee turned her face away. "Because I might hurt them." It wasn't a question. She was a prime sentinel, made to kill mutants.

The elevator dinged, and the door slid open. "We certainly don't want to risk triggering your transformation, that's true," Terry said as she wheeled the bed across the uneven threshold. She paused as soon as they cleared the elevator, though, and looked around. Across the hall, a man in scrubs nodded to her in greeting.

"We clear?" Terry asked, and the man nodded. He came over and helped Terry push the bed down the hallway.

Terry glanced down at Jubilee. "Much of this skullduggery is for your protection as well. These days, pre-transformation sentinels tend to end up dead if people find out what they are." She shrugged, her expression diffident, but Jubilee felt a chill.

They wheeled her into some kind of imaging chamber. A huge machine squatted at the center of the room, looking like a giant white toad. The circular opening on its front side reminded Jubilee of a mouth, stretched wide and waiting to swallow her. She shivered.

Terry and the man transferred Jubilee from her bed to the imaging platform. They arranged her to their satisfaction then braced her head between a pair of contoured foam blocks.

_They're just going to take pictures,_ Jubilee tried to reassure herself. But her heart hammered beneath her ribs, and her palms were sweaty.

Terry disappeared from her vision for a few seconds and then returned with a silver cylinder about the size of a small flashlight in her hand. After a moment, Jubilee recognized it as a pneumatic syringe like the ones Hank used in the medlab.

Terry showed the syringe to her. "This is a neuro-paralyzer," she said. "I'm going to inject it at the base of your skull. It'll lock up the nannites in your brain for about twenty minutes, so the doctor can come and do the scan."

Jubilee frowned. "You can't do the scan when the nannites are… active?" The idea of millions of little robots crawling around inside her body like ants gave her a serious case of the willies, but she tried not to let it show.

Terry shook her head. "Oh no, it's not that," she said with an odd smile.

"Then why?"

Terry sighed and patted her arm. "Doctor Reyes is a mutant."

Jubilee digested that as Terry slipped the syringe behind her neck. She felt the painful pinch as it discharged, and then the nurse was gone, leaving Jubilee alone.

#-#-#-#

"All right, dat settles dat one." Remy pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to push his headache down to a more manageable level. He shifted in his seat behind the Guildmaster's desk and looked over at Artur. "What's next?" Other than a couple of missing shelves over the wet bar and the lingering smell of crème de menthe, his office had been restored to order sometime during the night. He suspected he had Bobby to thank for that. Of course, he had Bobby to thank for the hangover, too, and he felt like someone was taking a jackhammer to the back of his skull.

"The Miami job," Artur answered, and Remy dragged his thoughts back into line. The reserved tone of Artur's voice told him the other man didn't like the proposition that was on the table.

Beside Artur, Chess laced his fingers across his stomach. "We don't need trouble with the cartels, particularly now," he said.

"We don't owe them any loyalty, either," Tom Shane shot back from the opposite side of the desk. Except for Adrian, all of the thieves on the council had ended up gathered around Remy's desk to discuss the current batch of jobs the Guild had under consideration. The sudden oversight was yet another indication of how much of the guildmembers' trust Remy had lost. A few days ago, he would have chosen the pinches he wanted his Guild to take and politely declined the rest, and no one would have batted an eye at the Guildmaster doing his job.

"It's a personal request from de Guildmaster of Miami," Remy reminded them. He'd spent much of the morning on the phone with his counterpart in the Miami Guild, trying to get a grasp on the political climate there that would lead to such a request, and the level of risk to New York if he accepted.

"But, stealing from a Columbian cartel in order to provide evidence for a federal prosecution?" Artur shook his head. "It's absurd."

"It's dangerous," Chess said.

Remy shrugged. "Oui, it's risky. But de Miami Guild is gettin' squeezed a little too hard by de cartels, an' they've asked f' our help. Their people are too well known to be able t' act against de Colombians. They'd end up in a war." He pinned each of the council members with a cool stare. "I got no problem takin' money from de Feds-- indirectly, o' course-- if it helps out our brothers. Nobody messes wit' Guild." If it weren't for OZT, Remy would have taken the job himself, for no other reason than that he loathed drug dealers. But the council wasn't going to accept that as sufficient reason.

Chess raised a hand, forestalling a further protest from Tom. "I agree we owe Miami whatever help we can afford to give them," he said. "The question is, can we afford this? What if the Columbians trace it back to us? What if the _government_ does?"

"Den we deal wit' dem." Remy tried to keep the frustration out of his voice. "De Kingpin can buffer us 'gainst de cartels. An' if he doesn't, we'll take matters into our own hands. How long dey stay in business if their shipments keep disappearing, eh?"

"And the federal government?" Chess asked.

Remy spread his hands. "Dat's de Miami Guild's problem. I told their Guildmaster they'd have t' front de deal. We can't afford to draw any more exposure than we already got by backin' de X-Men."

Artur breathed an aborted sigh. "Well, it sounds like you've thought through all the possible complications, Guildmaster."

Remy bit back a sarcastic response. Had lying to the Guild about Rogue some how turned him into an idiot?

Even an oblique thought of Rogue made his stomach curl into a hard little knot and he had to take a deep breath to steady himself.

"So dat's settled." Remy said after a moment. He turned toward Carson, carefully schooling his expression. "I'm gon' put dis in your hands," he told the thief, and saw a ripple of surprise run through the gathered councilors. "It's a difficult pinch dat's gon' require a deft touch an' a lot of prep work. But I t'ink y' de right t'ief for de job." Other than himself and possibly Marcus, Carson was probably the most qualified for this specific task regardless of how much Remy despised him personally. And it was a good time for the Guildmaster to be obvious about not playing petty favorites among his thieves.

Remy folded his hands on the desk in front of him. "Is dat all, gentlemen?"

He received a round of nods as the door to his office opened to admit Mystique. She walked several paces into the room and paused, one hand on her hip. Remy instinctively rose to his feet. His hand found the Glock that habitually sat on the corner of his desk, but he kept his finger off the trigger as he rested the muzzle lightly against the desktop.

He swept his gaze across the members of his council before returning his attention to Mystique. "Den I believe my future mother-in-law would like a moment."

With nods and a few departing comments, the council dispersed, leaving Remy and Mystique to face each other uninterrupted. Remy could read little of value from her heat signature, but that had always been the case with Mystique. Her body functioned too oddly for him to readily interpret what he saw.

"Raven." He acknowledged her with a nod.

"Where is my daughter?" Mystique's posture didn't change.

Remy resisted the desire to put his finger on the trigger. "I don' know." That fact gnawed at him, a constant ache that nothing could soothe.

Mystique let her hand fall from her hip and slowly sauntered forward. "You don't need the gun, Remy."

He snorted. "Y' forgive me if I don' believe y'."

She sat down in one of the chairs fronting his desk and crossed her legs. Hooking one elbow around the back, she regarded him evenly.

Following her lead, Remy returned to his seat. He balanced the handgun on his knee. "What do y' want, Raven?"

She clucked her tongue disapprovingly. "You don't seem very happy for a man who's getting married in a little over two days."

"I'm ecstatic." Leaning forward, Remy rummaged in his top desk drawer with his free hand until he located the pack of cigarettes and lighter he usually kept there. "Y' come by just t' mess wit' me?" Still keeping the Glock in his right hand, he tapped out a cigarette, put it in his mouth, and lit it.

When he leaned back, Mystique helped herself to a cigarette as well. "It's tempting," she allowed, and he could tell from her tone that she was smiling. "But, no. I just want to see my daughter."

Remy shook his head. "Can' help you." Just saying the words hurt, but he pushed the pain down, burying it deep inside his heart where it couldn't control him.

"Even if I promised not to break her out or otherwise interfere?"

Remy exhaled a long plume of smoke. "An' why would y' promise dat?" He was more than a little surprised she hadn't done anything violent yet. Logan was supposed to be keeping an eye on her, just in case.

Mystique laughed outright. "My dear boy, do you know how long I've been trying to get that hard-headed child of mine to join the real world? If I'd known that threatening _you_ was the key, I'd have done it a long time ago."

Remy blinked at her, thoroughly startled. "Y' okay wit' all dis?"

"Okay?" Mystique waved airily. "I'm delighted." She affected a wealthy socialite voice. "Imagine, my daughter, Guildmistress."

Remy narrowed his gaze, his thoughts turning. "F' de last three years y' been makin' it clear y' didn' like de idea of Rogue an' I together," he finally said. "So what's changed?"

"Is that what you thought?" Her voice was pure innocence.

Remy raised an eyebrow, refusing to rise to her bait. "Y' really did come by just t' mess wit' me."

Mystique chuckled. "One of the very few things I approve of in my daughter's life is her choice in men."

"I'm flattered."

Mystique stubbed out her cigarette and leaned back in her chair. "You should be. No, my issue has always been with this stupid Dream nonsense Rogue keeps chasing." She paused, and her voice grew serious. "I'll tell you, Remy, until this past year I was convinced this little dalliance with my daughter was going to end with you swearing off any and all illegal behavior and joining Xavier's merry band full-time. Then I would never have gotten Rogue back."

Remy finished his own cigarette as he studied Mystique. Then he shrugged. "Can' say I wasn't tempted," he told her. "But it jus' wasn't practical." Not to mention how unhappy the Professor would have been to lose his primary source of information.

Mystique tipped her head to the side, and the smile returned to her voice. "See, this is why I like you."

Under other circumstances, Remy might have smiled. Instead, he sighed tiredly and tossed the Glock back into its customary spot. "If y' got no intention of interfering, why do you want to see her?"

"Don't you?"

The question cut into him with the precision of a knife. Remy fought to keep his expression still. "I doubt my reasons are de same as yours," he managed after a moment.

Mystique shrugged as if acknowledging his point. "Let's just say it's a unique opportunity to meet my daughter with all her fairytale pretensions stripped away. I'd like to see what she's made of these days."

Remy shook his head as a chill scrabbled up his spine. "Y' cold, Raven." But, she always had been. He gestured vaguely. "You can always try talkin' t' the council, but I doubt it'll do y' any good."

#-#-#-#

Jubilee sat on the edge of her hospital bed, dressed in a pair of well-worn jeans and a faded GAP sweatshirt. The clothes were a donation from Terry, who had raided her teenage daughter's closet for a couple of outfits. The IV and heart monitor were gone, as was the pain, and the only remaining evidence from her accident was a set of narrow, pale scars along her leg.

The woozy feeling from the neuro-paralyzer injection had just begun to fade when Dr. Reyes walked in.

Reyes was a young, severe-looking Hispanic woman with a surprisingly kind smile. "Good morning, Jubilee. How are you?" she said as she entered. She carried a manila folder in one hand.

Jubilee kicked her feet as nervous little quivers chased through her stomach. "I'm okay." She looked at the folder. "Is that my brain?" They'd done the scan the day before, and Jubilee had been left in an alternating state of terror and anticipation since then.

Reyes flashed her a smile. "It is. Would you like to see?" She came and leaned one hip against the table beside Jubilee. She opened the folder then turned it so the young woman could view it.

Jubilee studied the plastic film covered with squiggly black lines and colorful blotches for several seconds. "What should I be looking at?"

Dr. Reyes pointed to a section of black squiggles near the center. "These black marks are the neural net resident in your brain."

"The… sentinels part?"

Reyes nodded. "The command and control network, yes." She pointed to a little black knot in one of the squiggles. "That's one of the microcomputers. They task the nannites." She looked up, meeting Jubilee's eyes. "Those are what we have to shut down if we want to keep you human."

The fear in Jubilee's stomach turned sour. "How?"

She watched as Dr. Reyes' demeanor turned distinctly professional. She pulled a pen from her breast pocket to point with. "This area here—" she circled a thick tree of black lines, "—is the heart of the transformation control logic. There are a total of seven microcomputers. They work in pairs, so there are three redundant controllers with a seventh that provides a reduced logic set if all three are somehow disabled." She paused for a breath. "Which means at a minimum we have to destroy all three of one type, plus the backup. And we have to do it in less than ten milliseconds or the controllers will be able to retask the nannites to start the transformation."

Jubilee was relatively savvy about technical systems, so she followed the gist of what the doctor said. "Can you do that?"

Reyes nodded. "With an array of lasers, yes. But there's always the risk of the microcomputers migrating while we're programming the lasers, or the calculations being just slightly off despite our best efforts."

Jubilee shuddered. She wasn't sure she could ask the obvious next question, so she was relieved when Dr. Reyes simply continued her explanation.

"I won't lie to you, Jubilee," the doctor said, her expression solemn. "It's a significant risk. There's about a thirty percent chance we'd trigger the transformation."

Jubilee bit her lip. "And then what?"

She shrugged. "We've become pretty adept at destroying primes before they complete the transformation." Her gaze was uncompromising.

Strangely, Jubilee was reassured by that. Dr. Reyes had always talked to her like an adult rather than a child, and it helped to know, if worse came to worse, she wouldn't allow her to become a sentinel.

Jubilee looked again at the image Reyes held. "What do all the rest of these do?" She indicated the black marks outside the area the doctor had indicated.

"Those control the prime sentinel. They contain the base operating system and instructions, weapons control and targeting, flight controls, navigation, et cetera. If we destroy the transformation logic, the rest of the net will just sit there, inert."

Reyes pulled another of the colored brain scan films from the back of the folder and laid it out for Jubilee to look at. "Here. This is what the brain looks like in a prime sentinel." Unlike her own scan, where the black squiggles were sparse, the sentinel's head was so thick with them that parts of the scan were simply black.

"It takes a tremendous amount of computing power to run a sentinel-- far more than exists inside the pre-transformation version. During the transformation process, the nannites clear away significant amounts of brain tissue in order to make room for the expanded network they're tasked to build. Without that expanded network, the microcomputers that contain the rest of the sentinels programming are useless."

Jubilee hugged herself, feeling cold. "So once they turn into a sentinel, the person inside is already dead," she concluded. They'd had their brain eaten away.

Reyes nodded. "Yes."

Jubilee gripped the edge of the exam table until her knuckles turned white with the strain. She wanted to demand that Dr. Reyes go in and destroy every single one of the alien _things_ in her head, but she knew it would only sound childish.

Dr. Reyes went on. "It will take three or four days for us to build a complete three dimensional model of your brain and to program the lasers, but then we'll be able to do the surgery. I'd like to get started as soon as possible."

Jubilee forced her thoughts away from the gruesome images the doctor's words had conjured. "Okay," she agreed. She didn't see that she had any choice. But, she also couldn't take the risk of dying before she could manage to pass on the Professor's whereabouts to someone who might be able to rescue him.

"Hey, Doc?" Jubilee raised her head to look directly at Dr. Reyes.

Reyes paused in the middle of closing the manila folder. "Yes, Jubilee?"

"Have you ever heard of the X-Men?"

Reyes smiled. "I was wondering when you were going to ask about them." To Jubilee's startled look, she added, "Yes, I know all about the X-Men." Her expression turned diffident. "Charles Xavier is-- was-- an acquaintance of mine."

Jubilee stared at the doctor, speechless. "Are they all right?" she demanded as soon as she found her voice. "Are they still alive?" She couldn't help the sudden burst of hope and desperation that exploded inside her heart.

Dr. Reyes nodded. "Yes, they're alive, and leading the fight against OZT."

_Wolverine!_ Jubilee sagged against the examination table as her muscles all seemed to turn to jelly. She was overcome with the sudden, inexplicable urge to cry, but she fought it.

"I need to get a message to them," she told Reyes once she'd managed to gather her composure. Her voice sounded thick to her own ears. "I was on one of OZT's satellites. I have important information to give them."

Dr. Reyes pressed her lips together in a thin line, her frustration evident. "We haven't had any contact with the X-Men, I'm afraid. We've got some information for them as well, if we could figure out how to get it to them."

Jubilee's heart sank at her words, even as a new question formed in her mind. "Who's 'we'?" she asked after a moment.

Reyes' expression lightened. "Xavier's mutant underground, of course."

#-#-#-#

The comfortable blackness surrounding Rogue shattered as a harsh, pungent smell stabbed into her sinuses. She jerked away from the smell, her eyes opening automatically. Adrian crouched over her, his hands holding the two halves of the capsule he'd just broken open beneath her nose.

"Wake up," he said, his tone neutral.

Pain followed consciousness, and Rogue groaned. She rolled away from Adrian, struggling to get her arms beneath her. The chain attached to her wrists clattered and scraped across the stone as she moved. Every motion hurt. Rogue gritted her teeth, breathing in shallow gasps as she hauled herself into a sitting position and braced her back against the cold stone wall.

Finally, she turned her head to look at Adrian. "Time for the next round, sugah?" she asked, her voice scratchy. Her tongue felt thick and her throat ached with thirst.

"Yes."

Rogue studied him, no longer intimidated by his flat stare. She wasn't certain, any more, how much of his cruelty was driven by duty and how much by his hatred of Remy.

"How much time… left?" she asked. Speaking made her ribs scream. She was pretty sure a couple were cracked, or so badly bruised that it made no difference. Adrian had done a pretty impressive job of walking the fine line the council had defined for him. Other than the possibility of her ribs, Rogue had no broken bones, nor did she think she had any significant internal injuries. Just a sea of hurts, coupled with hunger and sleep deprivation.

Adrian's watch glowed momentarily as he checked it. "About sixteen hours."

_Last day_, Rogue thought, nearly dizzy with relief. It really was going to end. She just had to hold out for a few more hours.

Adrian's shoes scraped against the stone as he shifted his weight. "You do understand that none of this is personal to you, don't you?"

Rogue forced her eyes to focus on Adrian once again. Something in his tone made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle in warning. She summoned a thin smile. "Don't worry, sugah. Ah know who ya aiming at." She drew a shallow, pained breath. "Don't forget who… lined the shot up for ya." She met his gaze and held it. Just because she didn't _like_ power games didn't mean she wasn't any good at them. And it was important to remind Adrian that the reason he was on that side and she on this one was not because he was in charge, but because she'd arranged it that way.

His expression narrowed. "You're a tough one, I'll give you that." He held out his hand to one of the two men who stood behind him. There were always three thieves in the room with her, though this time Rogue didn't immediately recognize either of Adrian's companions.

The man handed him a flat black case about the size of a glasses case. He opened it to reveal a small syringe clamped into the velvet interior. Rogue felt a quiver of nervous fear in her stomach. Drugs were something new.

She watched him warily. "What… is that?"

Adrian carefully freed the syringe and handed the case back to the man, who tucked it away inside his coat. As Rogue watched, he held it up and checked it for air bubbles. "This," he said "is an insidious little cocktail a few government agencies like to keep on hand in case they need to provide a little extra… incentive… during an interrogation." He favored her with a cool smile. "It cost me a small fortune to procure, especially at such short notice. But well worth it, I believe."

Rogue bit her tongue as Adrian caught her forearm in an iron grip. She instinctively tried to pull away from him, but she just wasn't strong enough without her powers. She felt the prick of the needle on the inside of her elbow, and then the sensation of the cool liquid entering her veins.

"Don't worry, it's not harmful," Adrian went on. "Other than some strain on the heart. It works on the pain receptors—feeds them all kinds of false information. I'm told it feels somewhat like being set on fire, only you don't get to go into shock and pass out after a couple of seconds."

Rogue stared at him in horror as the first sensation of heat began to creep through her body. It was like her blood was heating up-- at first radiantly warm and tingling along her limbs, then uncomfortable, and finally excruciating. Rogue clamped her jaw shut, her chest heaving as she fought the pain, but it kept building inside her like an explosion waiting to be released.

Adrian released her arm then leaned forward until his face was only inches from hers. He stared deep into her eyes, his expression fierce. "Let this be a warning to you, Rogue," he said in a dangerously soft voice. "I _will_ see LeBeau dead eventually, and if you get in my way, this is only the beginning of how much you will suffer. Do you understand me?"

Rogue twisted her face away and squeezed her eyes shut, desperately praying this was a nightmare she could wake up from. Her fingers curled involuntarily against the stone, the pain of her torn and ragged nails invisible beneath the white hot agony that enveloped her. Her legs spasmed, heels digging into the floor as if she could somehow push herself away from the pain.

Grimy, she struggled to hold on to her self-awareness. "If ya… makin' threats…" she gasped, "ya must be… right scared." She turned to look at Adrian and forced her mouth into a smile.

With a snarl of rage, Adrian rose to his feet and stalked away from her. Rogue didn't see him. She arched her back, her triumph stolen as a fresh wave of agony slammed into her. She forgot all about Adrian as she began to scream.


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter 32

Rogue tensed at the sound of someone entering her prison, her stomach twisting cruelly. If it was Adrian with more of his cocktail, she was afraid she might simply go mad. She wasn't sure she had the strength left to go another round with him. But, as the sound of the footsteps resolved itself, she could tell it wasn't Adrian. The steps were too light.

"Time's up, dear."

Rogue's eyes flew open at Mystique's voice. She rolled over with a groan to find her mother standing over her, a blanket folded over one arm. Artur and another thief stood near the doorway. For a moment she could only stare at Mystique, unable to interpret her presence.

"Mama?" The pain in her ribs flared. "What are ya… doin' here?"

Mystique favored her with a smile. "I wasn't able to convince the council to let me visit you earlier, but I did get them to agree to let me come get you now that the clock's run down." She gestured with her free arm. "So, up you go. Chop chop. We have a great deal to get done today."

The meaning of the words penetrated Rogue's brain, bringing everything into sharp focus in a burst of adrenaline. "It's over?"

"That's what I said, isn't it?" Mystique's tone was tinged with impatience.

Bracing herself, Rogue began the painful process of pulling herself upright. "Ya didn't happen ta bring… the key, did ya?" She raised her bound wrists, making the chain jangle loudly.

Mystique grinned. "Of course." She fished a small key on a ring out of her pocket and crouched down to unlock the manacles.

Rogue could hardly describe the feeling that swept through her as she pulled her arms free and let the cuffs fall to the ground beside her. With renewed determination, she climbed to her feet, using the wall to steady herself. Mystique didn't offer to help.

When Rogue was upright, her mother shook out the blanket in her arms and draped it around Rogue's shoulders. Rogue caught the edges and pulled it close, relishing the sudden warmth after so long in the underground chill.

Mystique turned and led the way out of the room, and Rogue followed. As she passed Artur, he inclined his head in respectful acknowledgment, and then he and the other thief fell in behind her. They wound their way through the halls, first climbing out of the sunken lower levels and then moving through the inhabited portion of the complex. The thieves had to help her climb the stairs, each with a strong, gentle hand under her elbow.

People stopped to watch her pass, most with expressions that ranged from neutral to sympathetic to downright friendly. Rogue didn't sense much animosity at all from the Guild, which she found encouraging. She had the feeling Remy was going to need all the good publicity she could manage to give him, at least for a while.

She pushed further thoughts of Remy away. She wasn't quite ready to deal with that, yet.

They eventually arrived at the Drakes' door. Mystique didn't bother to knock. She pushed the door open onto a scene that could have come from the pages of a wedding magazine. The first thing Rogue noticed was the dress, a stunning creation of ivory silk and lace draped across the couch. The rest of the room was filled with a vast array of boxes and ribbons, makeup and hair styling paraphernalia. Only then did Rogue take in the four women either sitting or standing around the room, their postures indicating they'd been waiting for a while.

Ororo, Jean, Diedre and Andrea all turned to look as the door opened.

Jean rose to her feet, one hand going to her mouth in an expression of dismay. "Oh, Rogue." Rogue saw similar expression reflected on the others' faces as well.

"Ah'm all right," she hastened to reassure them. And she was, at least in relative terms. It was over and she'd survived. She summoned a smile. "Ah know ah must look a fright." Blood and grime coated her skin and matted her hair.

Mystique snorted. "You look like something the cat coughed up, my dear."

The other women all sent Mystique dirty looks at that, but Rogue found herself grinning. Barbed jokes were her mother's way of showing affection.

Artur and the other thief left then, closing the door behind them.

Andrea came forward. "Here. This way, Rogue. Let's get you into the shower first." She and Ororo carefully herded her through the room, skirting the dress widely. Rogue was content to be led. She couldn't help the euphoria that trickled through her, even though she knew she still faced the ritual that would forever make her a member of the Clans, not to mention her own wedding. Still, the hardest part was over. Soon she would get to see Remy. She sighed. And then she would find out how badly she'd hurt him in the process of protecting him.

_One thing at a time, girl,_ she counseled herself.

Rogue let the blanket fall as Andrea got the shower going. She heard Ororo's tiny gasp as the other woman got a look at the bruises and welts that tracked across her skin.

"I will get Dr. McCoy," Ororo said.

Rogue shook her head. "Don't bother, sugah." She met Storm's eyes and was gratified by the anger she saw there. "He ain't gonna tell me anything ah don't already know. But, if ya got some Tylenol on ya…" She trailed off as the effort to slip out of her ruined underthings robbed her of breath.

Ororo nodded. "Of course. But it would be best if you ate something first."

Rogue's stomach cramped painfully at the mention of food. She tried to ignore it as she stepped beneath the hot spray. As tempted as she was to go searching for something to eat, she suspected her friends weren't going to let her out of the bathroom until she no longer posed a stain hazard to the beautiful accoutrements that filled the rest of the apartment.

Rogue showered methodically, scrubbing her skin as hard as she dared to get every last bit of dirt and washing her hair three times. She was exhausted by the time she emerged, but she felt a great deal more human. Ororo helped her to dry off, then handed her a robe to wear.

She padded out into the living room and sank gratefully into one of the empty chairs at the small dinette that stood off to one side. Jean brought her a bowl of oatmeal topped with a sprinkle of blueberries, and laid a handful of familiar red-and-white pills on the table beside it.

Rogue smiled. It was very much like Jean to have remembered her favorite comfort food. She swallowed the Tylenol dry then dug into the oatmeal with gusto as Diedre came over, brush in hand, to attack the tangled mess of her hair.

Jean disappeared for a moment then settled into the chair beside Rogue. She had brought a nail file, clippers and polish with her, which she set down with a small clatter. One hand absently rubbed her stomach with its barely visible swell. Then she took Rogue's free hand in hers and began examining her torn nails. On the far side of the room, Andrea and Mystique were discussing which shoes would go better with the dress, with an occasional comment from Ororo. It was all so very… domestic, Rogue decided. But she liked it. And besides, wasn't a girl supposed to be doted on by her friends on her wedding day?

Her stomach did a nauseating little twirl at the thought, which she ignored with determination. Her choices were made already. Instead, she managed to chat about inconsequential things with Jean and Diedre while they primped. Andrea brought over a well-stocked makeup case, which she wielded with professional acumen. Ororo finally joined them once the curling irons came out, helping Diedre to sweep all of Rogue's hair up onto the top of her head, where it then fell in a cascade of curls.

Rogue stared as Diedre upended a small container of bobby pins onto the table top, each of which had a glittering diamond affixed near the bend.

"Are those real?" she asked in surprise. Mystique picked up one of the pins, holding it up to the light to inspect its gem.

Diedre laughed. "Of course. No Guildmistress would be caught dead in fake stones." She picked up a bobby pin and proceeded to secure a portion of Rogue's piled curls with it.

"Decent quality," Mystique said and returned the pin she was examining to its place on the table.

Rogue shook her head, feeling a bit overwhelmed. "Ah can't believe y'all are putting diamonds in mah hair."

Jean chuckled. "Just wait 'til you see the necklace."

"Necklace?"

With an impish grin, Jean got up and went over to the coffee table. She fished a flat velvet case out of a bag and brought it back, setting it down in front of Rogue.

Hesitantly, Rogue reached out and flipped the case open. Her breath caught. The diamond necklace that lay in the black velvet interior was nothing short of astounding. The main body of the necklace was a simple chain of round stones, each perhaps two carats in size. In between each of those stones, a teardrop shaped diamond dangled from a short gold chain. The center teardrop was the largest-- Rogue didn't dare guess how many carats it might be-- with the size diminishing as the stones retreated from the center.

Mystique pursed her lips in a silent whistle. "Now that is impressive," she said.

Rogue looked up at Diedre and Andrea. "Did Remy…?" She trailed off, not sure if "buy" or "steal" was the word she wanted, or if it really mattered any more.

Andrea chuckled. "No. A jewelry purchase like this would be too conspicuous right now." She gestured toward the case. "This is from my mother's collection-- my father has never been able to bring himself to sell them. But you're welcome to borrow whatever you need until you have the chance to put together a few pieces."

Rogue absorbed the explanation with a sense of unreality that only increased as Jean carefully unlimbered the necklace from its case and fastened it around her throat. Diedre handed her a mirror, and Rogue stared at her reflection. She barely recognized the woman she saw. There were lines of hard experience around her green eyes, and a kind of calm determination-- a poise-- in her bearing that Rogue had never seen before. This woman wasn't overshadowed by the fortune in diamonds around her neck, but rather flattered by them.

"Well," Andrea said with a glance at her watch, "I think it's time to get you dressed."

Rogue fingered the necklace thoughtfully as Andrea and Jean ushered her over to where the dress lay. She vaguely remembered someone telling her the Guild used archaic styles for its ceremonial dress, and the gown seemed to bear that out. It looked like something out of the Renaissance, with a laced bodice and a split skirt that was obviously intended to have a second layer beneath.

As if on cue, Ororo brought a slender sheath of pale gold silk over to her. "Here, Rogue, this is the chemise. It goes on first."

Careful of both her hair and her ribs, Rogue slipped out of her robe and into the the gown. It was a swoop-necked, long sleeved affair that clung to her without being tight. The hem fell to the floor, and she noted in surprise that the skirt was slit nearly up to her navel, along a line that ran up the front of her right leg.

"Y'all want to clue me in here?" she asked, torn between bemusement and shock.

Andrea flashed her a smile. "That's so they can place the Guild mark on your hip. There should be a button to close that slit down to something reasonable until it's needed."

Rogue reflexively fingered her right hipbone. "Mah hip?" Butterflies started up in her stomach at the thought.

Andrea shrugged, amusement dancing in her eyes. "It was an interesting conversation, to say the least. I mean, where on a woman's body can you put a mark where the bone is close enough to the skin and it won't ever be openly visible?" She shook her head ruefully. "The last time this ritual was used, women didn't show their ankles in public, let alone anything else."

"It's not a perfect solution," Diedre added. "You'll have to be careful about the bathing suits you wear. But it's the best we could come up with."

Rogue found the button Andrea had mention and fastened it with a little shiver. The Guild would mark her as its property, just as they did with the thieves. But since she wasn't a thief, she couldn't wear that mark on her skull the way they did.

_There's no goin' back, is there?_ She looked over to where her mother stood a short ways away, arms crossed. Mystique noticed her gaze and nodded, a small smile curling her lips.

Sobered, Rogue turned away and let the women help her into the ivory gown.

"Don't lace it too tight," was all she said. Her ribs couldn't take it. And the last thing she needed was to not be able to breathe on top of everything else.

After that, there was nothing left but to let them pin the token veil beneath her curls and let its length tumble down her back.

Rogue slipped her feet into the shoes her mother set out for her then carefully moved to where she could see her reflection in the large mirror that decorated the Drakes' living room wall. Her friends drifted after her.

_This is ya princess moment, girl_, she told her reflection wryly. _Even if ya Prince Charmin' turned out ta be a king o' thieves instead._

"Ready?" Jean asked in a deceptively gentle voice.

Rogue nodded.

Jean caught her hand and squeezed it. "Then I'll take you to Scott."

Rogue studied her reflection for a moment longer. Then, straightening her shoulders, she turned. "Lead the way, sugah," she said.

#-#-#-#

Rogue leaned heavily on Scott's arm as they started down the aisle marked out for them. To either side, pillared candles taller than a man burned, shedding dim, uneven light on the ancient wood of the Guild Hall floor. Outside the double row of candles, the thieves stood like shadows, motionless and utterly silent. The display of discipline was as impressive as it was eerie, and Rogue briefly wondered what Scott thought of it.

She glanced over at the senior X-Man. He walked with his gaze fixed straight ahead, his expression set in familiar, grim lines. He, too, was dressed in clothes from another century, and the black cloak that swirled about his heels was decorated with the X-Men's red symbol.

The candlelit pathway led them to the front of the Hall, where the floor had been marked with a giant equilateral triangle. She and Scott stopped just outside that boundary, at the midpoint of the triangle's base. Two men in gray robes stood at the corners of the triangle closest to them, each with a tall brazier standing at their feet. Their faces were hidden inside the folds of their hoods, and Rogue knew nothing of them except that they were supposed to be Master Thieves, for no one else was allowed to wield the irons with which the Guild marked its own.

Remy stood at the apex of the triangle. Rogue tightened her grip on Scott's arm as her knees threatened to buckle. She forced herself to raise her eyes to his and was immediately burned away by the hungry intensity of his gaze.

Scott tugged lightly on her arm, and Rogue shook herself into motion. Together they stepped into the triangle and walked to its center. There, Scott bowed to the Guildmaster with military precision. Rogue held her breath as she matched him in a curtsy. If the motion hadn't hurt so much, so would have enjoyed the courtliness of it, the graceful gentility that appealed so much to her Southern roots.

Straightening, Scott turned them to the right, to repeat the gesture before the robed Master Thief who stood there, and finally to the man at the third point of the triangle. Rogue was panting by the time they finished the circle and turned to face Remy once again.

Scott gave her a concerned look as they crossed the short space that separated them from the Guildmaster. Rogue answered him with a tiny shake of her head and leaned a little more heavily on him. She felt the muscles of his arm tighten in response.

By the time they reached Remy, she'd forgotten all about Scott, about the pain that riddled her and the constant ache of exhaustion dragging on her like a lead weight. For a moment the solemn, even severe guise Remy wore almost continuously in his role as Guildmaster cracked open and the man she loved smiled at her, his gaze gentle and intimate. Rogue's heart skipped a beat.

Then the expression disappeared as he raised his head to address the assembled thieves. "Does de Guild hear?" he asked, his voice ringing in the stillness.

"We do," the thieves answered in unison.

He returned his attention to Scott and Rogue. "Scott Summers, do y' give this woman t' seal de pact between de X-Men and de Guild?"

The two men stared at each other, and Rogue saw the muscle in Scott's jaw clench. But then he drew himself up and nodded. "Yes."

Remy's gaze shifted from Scott to Rogue and his expression softened once again. He held out his hand to her.

For just a moment, Rogue turned to Scott, wishing she knew how to express her gratitude to him. For going along with all of this regardless of his personal objections, and for being such a steady presence for her. Not only today, but for all the years she'd been with the X-Men. To her surprise, he seemed to understand. With a flickering smile, he bent down and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

"Be happy, Rogue," he murmured.

Then he let her go and stepped back.

Smiling softly, Rogue turned back to Remy and placed her hand in his. His grip tightened as he drew her towards him. His red gaze dove deep into her own. "Daughter of the X-Men, will you submit to the Guild?" he asked her. "Your blood mingled with ours, today and forever?"

Rogue's smile fell away as the full weight of her choice descended on her. But it was far too late for second thoughts. A stab of pain lanced across her ribs as she drew a deep breath. "Ah will submit to the New York Guild," she answered, her words as ritual as the question, but no less binding for that. She met Remy's gaze with determination. "And to its master."

A narrow dagger appeared in Remy's hand as if by magic. She tensed as he turned her hand over, holding it palm up in a firm grip. Grimacing, she forced herself to hold still as he drew the blade across her palm, tracing a line of fiery pain on her skin. Blood welled from the cut to splatter on the floor. The wood, Rogue noted, had been stained black by the blood of those who had stood there before her. She did not miss the significance, or the powerful symbolism.

The dagger disappeared as mysteriously as it had appeared, replaced by a strip of cloth that Remy wound around her hand and tied off with gentle care. He then drew her close, and with a shiver of apprehension, Rogue went. Behind her, the two gray-robed thieves picked up their braziers and approached, setting them down with dual scrapes of metal on stone.

Remy turned her so as to put her back against his chest. One arm wrapped across her shoulders, pinning her against him, and the other encircled her waist. Of their own accord, Rogue's hands curled around his forearm. She could feel the steady thump of his heart between her shoulder blades, and after a moment she turned her head away from the two Masters, squeezing her eyes shut and burying her face against Remy's neck.

She flinched at the touch of a hand on her thigh, and felt Remy's arms tighten around her.

"Steady, chere." His voice rumbled in her ear. "Be over soon."

"That's easy for you ta say," she muttered in return as her skirt was drawn back, baring her hip. She felt more than heard his soft chuckle.

"I know." His lips brushed her hair. "I love you."

The words sent a burst of warmth through her that was immediately drowned out by an immense stab of pain in her hip. Her vision turned red behind her closed eyelids as a tiny sob was torn from her throat. It was as bad as anything she'd ever experienced, including Adrian's drug. And she was so very tired of hurting.

Tears squeezed out of the corners of her eyes, leaving cold trails across her skin. For the barest moment, she wanted to run—to tear herself free of this place and this man, and all the things she'd so blithely accepted when she'd set herself on this course.

She was mortified to hear herself whimpering, and clamped her lips to gether to make it stop. _Just hold on_, she told herself. Her fingers tightened instinctively around Remy's arm, her nails digging into the flesh.

Every muscle in her body went rigid in agony as they applied the second half of the mark, but just as quickly it was over. Gentle fingers applied something cool against the fresh burns-- a salve, she guessed-- and then taped a bandage in place.

For her part, Rogue couldn't do anything but lean against Remy and shake.

"Can y' still stand?" Remy asked her after a minute, his voice thick with concern.

Rogue forced herself to nod. "Ah'll manage." His grip on her loosened.

She opened her eyes. The two Masters in their all-encompassing gray robes had returned to their places at the far corners of the triangle, and a man she vaguely recognized had come to stand in front of her and Remy. He wore a robe as well, and had an ecumenical sash draped across his shoulders.

Rogue managed not to stagger too badly as she moved to stand beside Remy. Her hip throbbed in time with her pulse, overshadowing her more constant aches. After a moment, he let go of her waist and took her hand instead.

She clung to that solid anchor as the world around her began to gray. She'd made it through. The priest was speaking, his voice rising and falling in a mellow cadence. She didn't try to parse the words, but simply let them roll over her.

It wasn't until Remy spoke that she came back to herself with a start.

"I do."

Rogue blinked, trying to orient herself. The priest turned to her. "And do you take this man to be your lawful wedded husband…" he began, and she had to bite her lip to keep from snickering.

_Ah'm missin' mah own wedding!_ The effort of not laughing at the absurdity of it sent shooting pains through her ribs. She clapped her free hand to her side, trying to hold the pain in, and saw Remy's brow crinkle in concern. She warned him off with a shake of her head. This was the good part. She wasn't going to collapse before she'd gotten her little piece of fairytale.

"Ah do," she gasped when it was her turn, grateful the traditional ceremony kept her speaking parts to a minimum.

After that, Remy produced rings from somewhere on his person, and Rogue couldn't help her smile. How many times had she dreamed of this exact moment? She didn't have much attention to spare to admire the gold bands, each flush cut with a line of emeralds that glittered and winked in the light. It was the act itself that held significance for her, and as the weight of the ring settled on her finger she found herself mesmerized by the feel of it.

She looked up to find Remy watching her, his expression serious and his eyes alive with unguarded emotion. The priest continued to speak, but Rogue no longer cared what he was saying. She caught the phrase "man and wife" and something about kissing the bride, which brought Remy's devilish grin to life.

She grinned back, for once in her life unafraid as he bent toward her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and felt his fingers tangle in her hair as he captured her mouth in a passionate kiss. Everything else fell away from her awareness as she lost herself in the indescribable warmth that spread through her.

And for that moment, at least, she was utterly certain this future she had chosen for herself was worth everything she had paid.

#-#-#-#

Remy maneuvered his way through the crowd, a pleasant expression firmly plastered on his face. Every few steps, someone would stop him, wanting to offer their well wishes, and Remy was obliged to respond. He couldn't tell them that each friendly comment felt like a hot needle in his heart-- a painful reminder that their forgiveness had been bought with Rogue's suffering. The knowledge was something he did not yet know how he would reconcile, and the staggering relief he'd felt at seeing her approach on Scott's arm had quickly mixed with fury for the pain he could see in her every movement.

He glanced toward the far side of the room, where he'd left his wife sitting with a small cluster of friends from both the Guild and the X-Men.

_Wife._ He shook his head subconsciously. That was going to take some getting used to. Though he'd technically been married for most of his adult life, he knew instinctively how different this was from his relationship with Belle. How different he wanted it to be.

"Remy. A moment, if you would." Guildmaster Lotho's voice stopped him in his tracks.

Bracing himself, Remy turned as the head of the American Guilds approached. He inclined his head respectfully. "Guildmaster."

Lotho had been one of the Master Thieves who'd participated in the Guild ritual. Remy had decided to bite the bullet when he called Chicago, hoping that the senior Guildmaster's involvement would guarantee that New York's choices would be viewed as legitimate by the Guild at large. It hadn't been a pleasant conversation. But, after expressing his displeasure with Remy in no uncertain terms, Lotho had agreed, which was as much as Remy figured he could possibly hope for.

The Guildmaster carried a drink in one hand, which he raised in silent toast. "Congratulations."

Remy kept his reaction to himself. "T'ank you."

Lotho made a show of looking around. The commons area had been taken over by dozens and dozens of tables along with enough food for an army. The decorations were sparse, but that hadn't detracted from the festive air. The party served double duty-- both as a wedding reception and as an expression of the Guild's relief now that the entire ordeal was over.

"I must say, Remy, I'm impressed with what you've managed to accomplish here." He gestured, taking in the entirety of their surroundings with a sweep of his arm. "Someone told me you have both a fully-staffed med center and a school up and running." He sipped his drink. "And the X-Men have become the number one threat to OZT."

Remy blinked, taken aback by the unexpected praise. "I have a lot o' good people t' work wit'," he finally said.

Lotho nodded. "I can see that. But these things don't happen without good leadership, which is why I was particularly unhappy about this whole fiasco."

Remy felt a familiar stab of bitterness. "Well, if y' can tell me what, exactly, I could've done differently, I'd be obliged," he said more sharply than he intended.

Lotho didn't seem perturbed by his outburst. He shrugged. "Other than not getting involved with this woman in the first place… probably nothing." His heat signature intensified. "However, a lot of people are looking to New York as the model for how to survive the present crisis. As unavoidable as all this probably was, it has still damaged the Guild as a whole and at a time when we can ill afford it."

Remy looked away, out over the sea of people. "I never asked f' any o' dis," he said softly. "Never wanted de power or de responsibility."

"And yet you accepted both when they were offered."

Remy shrugged, acknowledging his point. He'd wanted to help mutants, and both were a means to that end.

Lotho paused to take a drink. "Why don't you introduce me to your wife, Guildmaster," he said after a moment. "I want to meet the woman who is worth so much chaos."

It wasn't a request, so Remy simply nodded and led the way toward where Rogue was. She sat at the end of a long cafeteria-style table, her chin propped on her hands. The people surrounding her looked up at his approach, their conversation quieting. From the slow, steady pace of her breathing, he was afraid she might have fallen asleep sitting there, but she looked up when he touched her shoulder and her heart rate picked up.

"I'm sorry, cherie, but I need y' t' stand up f' a little bit."

She nodded and let him help her to her feet. She seemed small and fragile in his grip, and in the privacy of his own mind he viciously condemned Adrian Tyre to the deepest pit Hell could offer.

Rogue swayed against him as he brought her over to where Lotho stood-- trying not to limp, he guessed. He made the requisite introductions, most of his attention focused on reading Rogue's signature and body language. She was too stubborn for her own good, and as important as it was for her to be there—to be seen—he wanted to make sure he would spot an imminent collapse in time to get her clear.

Rogue held out her hand to Lotho. "It's a pleasure ta meet ya, suh," she said, her voice thin but full of her ususal Southern charm.

The Guildmaster accepted the handshake, but kept hold of her hand rather than release her. He studied her intently, the shifting colors of his heat signature giving Remy little insight into his thoughts.

"How long has it been since you slept, Rogue?" Lotho finally asked, his voice gentle.

She tensed, a tiny flicker of reaction. "About three an' a half days, suh, give o' take."

Remy caught hold of his rage before it could spiral out of his control. Even more than the last three days, _this_ was his punishment. Every single moment in which Rogue gamely struggled to keep going despite pain and exhaustion, because of him—_for_ him—was the blood price the Guild demanded for having dared to want this one thing for himself.

Lotho continued to study Rogue. "What's your role with the X-Men?"

"Now, or when we still had our powers?" she asked.

Lotho cocked his head appraisingly. "Both."

She nodded, and Remy could feel her gathering herself. "Now, ah can… lead an insertion team, if need be." Remy heard the catch in her breath. "But ah'm primarily a sniper."

"And before OZT?"

Rogue pressed her free hand against her ribs. "Mah job has always been ta… absorb as much damage as ah can." Her tone hardened. "Ah'm pretty good at it."

"So I gather." The words were cool, but there was a note of respect in the Guildmaster's voice that hadn't been there a moment earlier.

"Malcolm Lotho, tell me ya ain't needlin' that girl on her weddin' day." A gruff voice, full of disapproval, intruded on their conversation. Logan stood a couple of paces behind Chicago's Guildmaster, his arms crossed over his chest.

Lotho whirled, the spike of anger Remy saw in his signature almost immediately giving way to surprise. "Logan! You old dog! Is that you?"

Logan let his arms fall and stepped forward. "Hey, Mal. Been a long time."

Remy watched in bemusement as the two men shook hands with the enthusiasm of old friends.

"I had no idea you were with the X-Men," Lotho said.

Logan shrugged. "Somebody's gotta show the kids how it's done, an' I ain't got any place else ta be."

Lotho chuckled. Logan turned to Rogue and took both of her hands in his. "Congratulations, darlin'."

"Thanks, sugah." Remy could hear the smile in her voice.

"So, do I get ta kiss the bride?" Logan's voice was full of sly good humor. "I believe I'm entitled, seein' as I was the first person ya ever told ya were in love with Gumbo here."

Remy raised both eyebrows, immensely curious as to those circumstances, and he heard Rogue laugh lightly.

"Ah suppose ya… are, at that," she said.

Remy found himself smiling as Logan leaned across to kiss Rogue lightly on the lips. He could see the blush that crept up her cheeks, and felt an unexpected stab of gratitude toward the other man. Other than himself, Logan was the only man he'd ever seen treat Rogue like she was something other than untouchable.

Logan turned to Guildmaster Lotho and clapped the taller man on the shoulder. "Let me buy ya a drink, Mal. You can tell me what ya've been up to fer the last thirty years."

"An offer I can't refuse," Lotho agreed easily. He shifted his attention to Remy and Rogue. "Guildmaster." He inclined his head. "Guildmistress." Then he turned away, falling in step beside Logan.

"Small world," Rogue said after a moment, and Remy had to laugh.

He planted a kiss on the top of her head. "Dat it is." Gently, he turned her toward the door. "I t'ink it's time f' you t' get some sleep."


	33. Chapter 33

Chapter 33

Remy emerged from his quarters to find his father at the wet bar, tinkering with the coffee maker by the sounds. Remy yawned and went to rescue his morning coffee.

Jean Luc turned at his approach. "Good mornin', Remy."

"Mornin', Pere," Remy returned. He held out his hand for the scoop, which his father grudgingly surrendered. The elder LeBeau leaned his hip against the counter, arms crossed as Remy went about preparing the coffee.

"I _am_ capable o' makin' a pot o' coffee." His father managed to sound both amused and irritated.

Remy smirked. "Y' ability t' turn perfectly good coffee into sludge is downright amazin'." He stifled another yawn. He hadn't slept well. Every time Rogue so much as twitched, it had woken him up. Each time he'd felt compelled to wait for a while, watching her pulse and listening to make sure her breathing hadn't grown too shallow, before he could allow himself to go back to sleep.

"How is Rogue?" his father asked as if reading his mind.

Remy shrugged. "Sleepin'." He was pretty certain she had fallen asleep sometime between the time she'd sat down on the edge of the bed and the time her head hit the pillow two seconds later. He expected her to sleep for at least another twelve hours or so.

The coffee pot began to burble. "What time is it, anyway?" Remy asked as he made his way over to the couch and sank into it. His father followed.

Jean Luc chuckled. "Much too early f' any self-respectin' thief to be awake." He leaned back, stretching.

Remy studied his shifting patterns of his father's heat signature. Jean Luc wasn't as relaxed as he was trying to appear.

Remy sighed and propped his feet up on the coffee table. Things weren't nearly as strained between them now, but they weren't exactly comfortable, either. "T'ank y' again f' coming, Pere." Jean Luc had filled the third spot required for the Guild ritual.

His father sat forward, his body language betraying reluctance. "Y' asked f' my help. Of course I came, Remy."

Remy nodded, resisting the temptation to look away. "But y' don't approve."

The coffee machine beeped, inordinately loud in the silence. Remy rose. "Y' want some?" he asked over his shoulder as he crossed the room. He managed to keep his voice even.

Jean Luc sighed. "It's not that I don' _approve_. Saints, Remy!" He stood, his body language clearly agitated. "Y' t'ink I don' realize how hard dis must be for y'? I was _dere_ eleven years ago."

Remy managed not to slosh coffee over his hand at the sudden tremor that ran through him. Trust his father to skip all the obvious reasons and go for the deeper ones. If he closed his eyes, he knew he could recall every detail of that day-- more than eleven and a half years ago, now. His eighteenth birthday. His wedding day. It was the first and last time he had ever been completely, blissfully happy, confident that the future held nothing but brightness.

That certainty had lasted all of three hours.

Remy carefully set the coffee urn back in its place. His hands balled into fists involuntarily, and he laid them on the counter, fighting for calm. A moment later, he felt his father's hand close on his shoulder and flinched.

"Remy." To his credit, Jean Luc didn't withdraw. His strong fingers dug into the rigid muscles of his son's shoulder.

Remy forced his lungs to draw a short, ragged breath. He had never had the courage to ask this question. "Dat day—" He closed his eyes, seeing once again the bright blood that streaked the sword in his hand and splattered across his wedding clothes. "Y' knew Julien made de challenge. Y' _knew_ I had a case f' self-defense."

His father blew out his breath in a long sigh. "Oui, y' did."

Remy wanted to pull away from his father's touch, but he couldn't move. "Den why didn' y' fight for me?"

Jean Luc squeezed his shoulder painfully tight. "I wanted to. Believe me, I wanted nothin' more." The pressure left Remy's shoulder and he opened his eyes. In his peripheral vision he saw his father move to lean his back against the counter and cross his arms. "An' though keeping peace wit' the Assassins was an important consideration, I could've forced Marius t' accept a no fault judgement." He shook his head. "We all knew there was somet'ing not right inside dat boy-- dat somebody was gon' have t' put him down one day. Marius didn' want t' see it, but even he knew."

Remy wasn't prepared for the admission. He whirled on his father, nearly choking on his fury. "Y' could've gotten _no fault_?" It came out as a hiss. "Y' _let_ dem torture me? Y' _banished_ me from my _home_?"

Jean Luc tipped his head back in an expression Remy recognized. If he could see his father's face, he knew he would find deep lines of grief etched there. But knowing that didn't help the seething pit of anger and betrayal inside him.

Eventually, Jean Luc straightened and turned to regard his son. "Y' don' really understand how extraordinary y' are, do you, Remy?" he asked softly.

Remy stared at him, unable to reconcile his words with his actions so many years ago. "What?"

"Look around y', son." Jean Luc gestured widely. "Y' not even thirty years old yet, an' y' Guildmaster of one o' de most influential Guilds on de planet. Y' also a mutant, wit' power enough t' run wit' de X-Men, who go off an' fight people like Magneto an' Onslaught. An' if-- _when_-- OZT gets taken down, it's gon' be in large part because of you."

Remy eyed his father warily. "What's dat got t' do wit' anything?"

Jean Luc uttered a soft snort. "Do y' remember dat jet y' stole?" There was a reflective quality to his voice that Remy hadn't heard in many years, an affectionate nostalgia that burrowed deep into his heart, beneath the anger. "Y' were t'irteen. I remember Lapin callin' me-- tellin' me y' were up dere an' de Air Force was scramblin' intercept fighters an' he didn' know what t' do because he was certain dey were gon' shoot you down." Laughter lit his voice. "I was afraid de boy was gon' have a heart attack before he could even get de story out."

Remy nodded, a lopsided smile growing on his face. It had been one of his wilder escapades as a pup. But playing tag with a couple of F-16s out over the Gulf of Mexico remained one of his favorite memories, just for the sheer, crazed adrenaline-joy of it.

"I remember," he finally said.

His father seemed to wilt, his good humor suddenly gone. "Dat was the day I realized what a huge mistake I'd made."

Remy's brow dipped. "Mistake?"

Jean Luc nodded. "I knew from de moment I saw y' dat y' were somet'ing special. I t'ought I was doin' de best t'ing for y', makin' a home for y' in de Guild. Certainly de Guild would benefit." He shrugged, the motion apologetic. "It never occurred t' me dat de Thieves Guild might not have enough t' offer. Dat I was effectively trappin' y' in a cage dat could never be big enough."

Cold tendrils snaked their way into Remy's chest, squeezing his heart. "What are y' sayin, Pere? Dat y' shouldn't have adopted me?" His anger had frozen into a solid lump in his stomach.

Jean Luc spread his hands in a helpless gesture. "I don't know, Remy. All I know is that, in two years, y' went from bein' a homeless gutter rat wit' zero education t' an apprentice wit' de knowledge, skill an' confidence t' not only break into a secure military facility, but t' get a machine as complicated as a fighter off de ground wit'out gettin' caught or killed. Two years after dat, y' were turnin' into a right little hellion because y' were so bored wit' de normal pace of teachin' in de Guild. Two years after _dat_, y' were good enough t' earn y' mark." For a moment the laughter came back to his voice. "An' y' were still a hellion."

Remy snorted at the assessment, but couldn't deny its truth. They'd called him _le diable blanc_ for more than just his eyes.

Jean Luc turned serious once again. "But don' y' see? Y' were barely grown an' already I could see y' were going t' outgrow de Guild. Five years t' get y' Master's mark, which most men spend half a lifetime t' earn? Den what? My place as Guildmaster of New Orleans? It would have been yours, no question. But den what? New Orleans is a small guild. How long could y' have been happy there?" He looked down at his feet. "No, when Julien died, it was an opportunity for y' dat I jus' couldn't let pass."

Remy leaned against the counter, not sure he could stand without support. He didn't know if he could bear to hear what his father would say next.

Jean Luc's shoulders slumped. "Banishment was de only way t' set y' free."

Remy looked away, covering his mouth with one hand. He wanted to curl up around the nausea in his gut, but he kept himself upright with one hand braced against the counter. "I never wanted t' be free." The words tasted like bile. In the dark recesses of his mind, he could hear Sinister laughing at him. "I jus' wanted t' be able t' go _home_."

"I can see dat now." Jean Luc stared at the ground. "You've made a good home here, Remy. An' regardless of what y' might t'ink, I do approve of Rogue. She's a good match for y. I've seen what she c'n do, what kind o' fire she's got in her."

Remy's grip on the counter tightened. His home in New York was just as precarious as the one in New Orleans had been. He could lose it just as easily. He _would_ lose it, eventually. He'd learned that lesson the day he turned eighteen.

"Why y' tellin' me dis?" he finally asked.

His father reached into his jacket and withdrew something from an inner pocket. Remy heard a rustle, like paper but not quite the same.

"I wanted t' give y' dis." He extended the thing in his hand, and, hesitantly, Remy took it. His fingers closed on a folded sheaf of parchment, sealed with wax, and with the emblem of the New Orleans Guild embossed in the seal.

"What is it?" His father knew he couldn't read words on paper with his powers suppressed.

Jean Luc cleared his throat. "It's a decree from the New Orleans Guild, recinding your banishment."

Remy's breath froze in his chest. He stared at the invisible papers in his hand, hardly daring to believe what he'd just heard. He felt strangely light all of a sudden, as if a crushing weight had fallen away somewhere inside him. He pushed away from the wetbar and wandered over to his desk, where he collapsed in the high-backed leather chair. He held the decree in both hands, his thumbs absently tracing the wax seal with its familiar Guild emblem.

"Why now?" he asked once the initial shock had passed.

Jean Luc turned back to the coffee pot and proceeded to finish fixing two mugs of coffee. He brought both over to the desk, plunking one down in front of Remy and taking the other with him to the far side of the desk. He settled into one of the chairs there, his cup cradled in both hands.

"It was time." He shrugged. "Politically, o' course, it's New Orleans' way o' makin' nice wit' de new Guildmaster of New York, but you an' I know dat ain't what dis is about."

Sighing, Remy set the parchment carefully on the edge of his desk and picked up his coffee. "Oui, Pere."

The office door opened then to admit a man Remy recognized as one of the techs who worked in the Guild's data and communications center. The Guild had always maintained several data mining operations which had been stepped up since the advent of OZT.

"Guildmaster," the man said as he crossed the room, "I apologize for interrupting, but this was flagged for your personal attention when it came up." He held out a piece of paper which Remy accepted with a nod.

"Merci."

The tech turned and left. Remy handed the paper across to his father. "What is it?"

"A death certificate." Jean Luc sounded puzzled.

Remy's stomach tightened. "Whose?"

His father peered at the paper in his hands. "Someone named Jubilation Lee."

#-#-#-#

Dr. Cecilia Reyes stood outside the small recovery room, looking through the observation window at her patient. Jubilee slept, her head shaved and wrapped in gauze. So far, her prognosis looked good.

Cecilia didn't like to admit it-- doctors weren't supposed to care about one patient more than another-- but losing this one would have broken her heart. She remembered Jubilee's file from the stack Charles had sent her-- the spunky girl the X-Men had adopted as their mascot and kid sister, and who had earned her place with them several times over.

"How is she?" a lightly accented voice asked, and Cecilia turned to find Louis Kim at her elbow. Louis was another member of the underground, a control systems engineer who'd left NASA to come to New York to help figure out how the sentinels worked.

Cecilia tried to put on a smile. "Good. Her nannites are busy knitting her skull back together. I expect she'll be completely healed in a day or two."

Louis ran a hand through his thatch of unruly black hair. "I've got something to show you, if you have a minute." He gestured behind him, in the general direction of his office.

Cecilia turned. "Sure." She followed Louis down the corridor to the little broom-closet room that passed for his office. He sat down in behind the metal desk, which was covered in papers, x-ray films and various other scan results, and picked up what Cecilia immediately recognized as one of Jubilee's brain images.

He handed it to her. "What do you see, doctor?" he asked, and Cecilia was taken aback by the intensity lurking behind the question.

Brow furrowing, she studied the multicolored film. It was a side view, which showed the bulk of the sentinel neural net in the frontal lobe and central areas of the cerebrum. The transformation control bundle, located closer to the cerebellum, was less visible.

"It's Jubilee's neural net," she finally said. "What am I supposed to be seeing?"

Louis took the film back from her and held it up to toward the ceiling. The glow from the overhead fluorescent lights illuminated the scan from behind, throwing the image into sharp relief. "Look right there," he said, and pointed to a shadowy area toward the back of the neural net.

Cecilia squinted her eyes, studying the image until she registered the two dark dots with their attendant cloud of little black lines in an area they didn't usually occupy.

"I've never seen that before." She looked over at Louis, concern and curiosity warring inside her. "Extra microcomputers?"

He nodded.

"Do you know what they do?" Cecilia took the film back from him, staring at it as if studying it more closely might resolve the mystery.

He shook his head. "Not a clue. But whatever this girl is, it's not your ordinary run-of-the-mill prime sentinel."

#-#-#-#

Remy kept a careful watch on the street outside as his driver pulled the towncar up in front of the Worthington Industries building. People crowded the sidewalks, the familiar Manhattan bustle reassuring despite the ever-present threat from a random un-transformed prime sentinel. A thief rode in the front passenger seat, his eyes constantly scanning the area around them. He carried a powerful laser rifle across his knees, his hands on the grips and his finger on the trigger.

Bishop sat to Remy's left in the back seat. The time-lost mutant had volunteered to play bodyguard today, and was similarly armed. Remy didn't quite know what to make of Bishop any more. Despite his stated disdain for all illegal activites, Bishop had taken to the Guild with remarkable ease, and demonstrated a level of personal loyalty to Remy that the young Guildmaster found disconcerting. Remy was beginning to dread what might happen the next time Father's Day rolled around. He had no idea how to approach the role his future self had played in Bishop's life, or if he had any business trying.

Remy drummed his fingers on his knee, pushing the dour thoughts away. He had elected not to wear a weapon on this trip other than his bo staff, which few guards had ever taken from him. Since Worthington's people only knew Remy as the security guy their boss had put in charge of revamping the building's security system, wearing a gun would have been out of character.

In keeping with that role, Remy had dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, with his brown duster over them. It felt incredibly good to get out of the complex and out of his Guildmaster role, despite the danger inherent in going above ground. He expected to be safe once he got inside the Worthington building's security perimeter. _If_ they'd implemented all of his changes, which would be the first thing he checked.

After a few seconds, both Bishop and the thief in the front seat got out. People on the sidewalk took note of the well-armed men and gave the car wide berth. Remy waited until the count of three before stepping out of the car. Any nearby sentinel would have been well into its transformation by then.

The thief remained by the car as Remy and Bishop made their way into the building. Bright sunlight streamed into the front lobby through the reflective glass that lined the entire front face of the building. Its heat illuminated the area for Remy, making the bank of metal detectors and imagers that blocked further progress into the building visible to his limited sight. People queued up behind the detectors, seeming relatively content with the strict security.

Remy pulled off his sunglasses and stuck them in his coat pocket. Normally, he wouldn't expose his eyes in a situation like this, but the world was going through a strange metamorphosis, if what Warren told them was correct. His eyes marked him as a mutant, which gave him an immediate and understandable reason to have an openly-armed bodyguard shadowing him.

With Bishop a step behind him and to his left, Remy got into one of the lines for the detectors. The woman ahead of him turned as he stepped up behind her. She was tall and slender, and the way she held herself made him think she was probably quite attractive.

"I didn't realize gorgeous was a mutant power," the woman said, looking him over.

Startled, Remy grinned. "Shhh. It's my secret weapon," he told her conspiratorially, and was rewarded by her throaty laugh.

She turned to face him, her body language friendly and flirtatious. "Do you work for Worthington Industries?" she asked with a glance toward the line ahead of her.

He shrugged. "I do today."

She reached up to tuck a lock of her stylishly long hair behind her ear. "It's a great place to work, particularly if you're a mutant… if you don't mind my saying so. Mr. Worthington takes good care of his people, and he doesn't stand for any of this OZT nonsense."

"So I see," Remy answered, bemused by her accepting attitude. It made sense that a company like WI, which was run by a known mutant, would attract people who held a more tolerant attitude toward toward mutants, but it was still strange to see.

Their line moved forward, leaving just one man ahead of Remy's companion. She took several steps forward then turned to face him once again. He could see a flush rising up her neck and into her cheeks.

"Listen, I'm not usually this forward," she began, "but I was wondering if you might be free for lunch today?"

Remy smiled apologetically. "I'm flattered, chere, but I don't t'ink my wife would be very happy wit' me."

Her heat signature flared, and Remy knew she was blushing scarlet. "Oh! I'm sorry, I missed the ring." She turned away, one hand fluttering in an embarrassed gesture.

Remy let her go. He'd been turning women down for more than two years now because of Rogue, but the process had just gotten vastly simpler. Strangely, fidelity was the one thing Rogue had never explicitly demanded of him. He halted that train of thought before it could go any further. He had more questions than ever about their relationship, none of which could be answered until they could find a chance to talk, and given their past track record he had no idea when that might happen.

The woman stepped through the imaging station ahead of them, and then was gone, headed toward the elevators without a backward glance. The security guards manning the detectors watched Remy and Bishop as they stepped forward, their stances wary but not alarmed.

"No weapons beyond this point," one of the guards told them. Bishop nodded and set his rifle on the counter provided, then went through the paperwork to sign the weapon in with them. While he did that, Remy showed his ID-- which was a very good fake-- to the second guard at the station. His sunglasses, watch, wedding ring and the collapsed bo went into a little bin to be passed through an x-ray machine, while he stepped into the imager.

The tech running the imager waved him through after a minute. He collected his effects then waited as Bishop repeated the process behind him. He found himself fiddling with his ring and forced himself to stop. He'd felt a twinge of regret for leaving the complex while Rogue still slept, but when Warren had called not ten minutes after he'd gotten the news about Jubilee, asking if he had time to drop by, it had seemed like the prudent course. Whatever Warren wanted, it would be significant.

After stopping by Worthington's chief of security's office for a brief chat, Remy and Bishop headed for the elevator that would take them to the penthouse. Remy's passcard unlocked the upper floors, and he punched the top button without hesitation.

The elevator doors opened on the massive expanse of Warren's office. The single room took up half of the top floor, and the floor-to-ceiling windows lining the far wall, he knew, gave a nearly unparalleled view of the New York skyline.

Warren rose from behind the desk as Remy and Bishop walked in. Off to the side, Scott, Logan and Elisabeth sat in a cluster of chairs, apparently talking.

"Remy, come in. I'm glad you could make it." Warren's wings rustled as he resettled them on his back. "Bishop," he greeted the other man with a nod.

"Sounded important on de phone," Remy answered as he crossed the room to shake Warren's hand.

Warren nodded. "It is, but I don't want to get into that just yet. Something to drink? Coffee, tea? I still have some of that Oolong blend you put me on to."

"Tea, please," Remy said, amused by the new level of friendliness in Warren's voice. He knew he would never meet the other man's standard of respectability, but the role he'd played in saving Worthington Industries from OZT had bought him a kind of acceptance.

Warren shifted his attention to Bishop, who declined with a shake of his head. "I do not require anything."

Warren gestured for Remy and Bishop to join the others while he went to the small bar located behind his desk. "So, I hear congratulations are in order?" he said over his shoulder.

"Oui. T'anks." Remy didn't elaborate. He had no idea what Scott or Logan might have told him about the events of the past few days, and he didn't feel like trying to explain.

"Slumming today, Remy?" Elisabeth inquired from her seat as Remy stepped past her. She had her legs crossed and bounced her foot to a stately rhythm. From her posture, he suspected she was dressed to the nines, and no doubt with her usual salacious flair.

Remy chuckled. "Jus' tryin' t' look like a security consultant, chere."

"Speaking of which—" Warren returned, a cup and saucer in hand, which he handed to Remy. "What's your opinion of the new measures?" He gestured toward the rest of the building.

Remy sipped his tea. "What I saw looks good," he told Warren. "I'll send Bobby over t' look through the wiring in detail, an' assuming dat's all in order, we'll see who wants first crack at breakin' ya." He allowed himself a smile. In exchange for a security system designed by one of the best thieves on the planet, Warren had agreed to let the building serve as a training ground for the New York Guild. Whatever weaknesses the thieves found to exploit would then be fixed, making the building that much more secure. It was an arrangement Remy suspected would work out very well for both of them.

Warren nodded, seeming pleased. Out of the corner of his eye, Remy could see Scott shaking his head ever so slightly in consternation.

Remy grinned. "If it'll make y' feel better, y' can stick y' fingers in y' ears until we're done," he told the X-Men's leader.

"Cute," was Scott's response. "But unless the two of you are plotting to overthrow the government, I think I can cope."

Warren settled into the chair next to Betsy and reached over to take her hand. "Actually, that's why I wanted to arrange this meeting."

Remy tried to keep his reaction neutral as both Scott's and Bishop's heat signatures spiked with alarm.

Warren chuckled. "Relax, I'm not plotting treason." He rose and went over to his desk, where he pressed a few buttons on his computer's keyboard. "But I _am_ planning to sue."

"Sue who?" Scott asked, sounding puzzled.

"The government." The large flat panel screen that stood on a mount a short ways from the desk came to life. Remy couldn't see the image on the screen, but he could see the glow as the electrical components heated up. At the same time, the sounds of a phone ringing came across through the associated speaker system.

Logan barked a laugh. "Not nearly as much fun, but probably more effective."

Remy heard the click as the phone was picked up on the far end.

"Hello?" He recognized Dyson's voice immediately.

"Good afternoon, Dyson." Warren settled himself in the chair behind his desk and turned it to face the screen. "I think you know everyone." He waved toward the X-Men.

Remy could imagine Dyson nodding in greeting as he looked them over. "Of course. Hey, Remy, did you get my emails?"

Remy shook his head. "Sorry, mon ami. I'm a little behind." Even with Diedre helping him, he had a hard time keeping up with his email. It was one arena in which his vision loss really frustrated him. "What's up?"

"Nothing huge. There's a real estate deal in Kuala Lumpur I thought you might be interested in. I need an answer by Wednesday, though, if you want to make a preemptive bid."

Remy filed the information away. "Okay. I'll take a look once I get back to my computer."

He could hear the shift as Dyson turned his attention back to Warren. "I assume you called to talk about the Xavier estate?"

That gained him the full attention of everyone in the room. Remy glanced over at Warren, a little annoyed that neither he nor Dyson had thought to give him a heads up on any information they'd discovered about Xavier's stolen accounts.

Scott leaned forward. "What about the estate?" The keen interest in his voice didn't surprise Remy. Charles had left Scott in charge of both the school and his personal finances when he surrendered himself to government custody, and Scott would have taken the loss of both as a kind of personal failing.

"It took me a while, but I've managed to trace the money OZT took from the Xavier estate."

"Where is it?" Scott asked.

"Currently, it's in a slush fund attached to the National Research Defense Initiative—they're one of several government think tanks that have replaced DARPA and its ilk."

"What does NRDI have t' do wit' Zero Tolerance?" Remy wanted to know.

Dyson's grin was evident in his voice. "Nothing, as far as I can tell. But the money was donated to NRDI by a subsidiary of Draxar, Incorporated."

Remy pursed his lips in a silent whistle. "An' y' can prove it?"

"Yes."

"Wait, what's Draxar again?" Scott wanted to know. Remy doubted he'd heard the name since before they'd had to abandon the mansion.

"The legal name of OZT's front company."

Remy saw the impact of Dyson's words on Scott's heat signature. "Then you can prove OZT was behind the attack on the mansion."

Warren nodded. "And since they used the school as their entry point to go after Worthington Industries, I can introduce it all as evidence in a civil suit." He gestured to Scott. "Depending on how it goes, you may want to file against OZT as well, as trustee of Xavier's estate."

"Except that it wouldn't be very hard for some sharp legal type to connect me to the X-Men," Scott countered. "And we haven't exactly been model citizens recently." He cocked his head in a way that made Remy think the other man was rolling his eyes at him.

"That's not necessarily a bad thing," Warren said. "It would open the door for a hearing on whether OZT's actions are legal. Since the X-Men haven't destroyed any asset that isn't directly involved in supporting the prime sentinels, if you can have OZT's actions declared illegal, you're more or less off the hook."

Logan snorted. "Yeah, I'll believe _that_ when I see it."

"No, he's got a point," Scott said thoughtfully. He leaned back in his chair. "If we can get a court—any court—to come out and call OZT what it is, we're halfway to getting them shut down. Anti-OZT sentiment is growing. It doesn't really matter if they declare us all enemies of the state or worse. It's nothing we haven't had to deal with before."

"Regardless, the more pressure we can put on OZT, the better." Warren swiveled his chair absently as he spoke.

Remy found himself nodding, though Warren's plan was pretty much outside of his sphere of influence. "Not t' over-state de obvious, but my name needs t' stay out of dis as much as possible."

"Of course," Scott agreed, his voice studiously neutral.

Warren echoed him, but added, "Dyson tells me you're pretty much clean--on paper, at least."

"Oui, dere ain't nothin' can be pinned on me officially. But if enough people start puttin' their suspicions together, my life could get pretty hairy." With Dyson in the conversation, Remy couldn't mention the Guild, but he knew the others would catch his meaning.

"Understood," Scott assured him. "Let's see how things go with Worthington Industries first. Then we can make a decision about bringing the X-Men into it."

Warren reached up to tap a couple of keys on his computer. "Thanks, Dyson. I'll call you tomorrow," he told the consultant, and then cut the connection.

Scott laid his head back against his chair's backrest and stared at the ceiling. "How quickly will the media pick up on this lawsuit once you file?" he asked Warren.

Warren shrugged. "Hard to say. The independents will run with it immediately, especially if you give Ms. Tilby some advance notice. I'm not sure how much influence OZT still has over the major networks. But it's safe to say it'll become a big story within a few days-- a week at most."

Scott blew out his breath in a gusty sigh. "All right. That means the X-Men need to arrange to do something spectacular during that time frame."

Remy turned a surprised look on him that he was certain was echoed by the others in the room. Even Elisabeth seemed startled.

Scott straightened in his seat. "No one is going to miss the connection between Warren and the X-Men, so we might as well use it to do as much damage to OZT as possible. Put it on the front page of every newspaper in the world and let people argue about it. The more exposure OZT gets, the more people are going to realize what's really going on."

"What d'ya have in mind, Fearless?" Logan asked.

Scott shrugged. "I don't know. But it'll have to be something more integral to the prime sentinels program than another fuel depot." He looked over at Warren. "How long until you file?"

"At least a couple of weeks. My lawyers still have to get all their ducks lined up."

"Okay." Scott nodded in an accepting kind of way. "We may need to push that out a bit, depending on what target we pick. Remy, you've got current satellite data for the Eastern Seaboard, right?"

Remy nodded, curious where he was going. "Sure."

"Then I'd like to see if we can plausibly hit one of their manufacturing centers. Preferably one of the final assembly plants."

Remy's gut tightened. "I t'ought we agreed dere was too much risk in goin' after de assembly plants." The security around the prime sentinels' birthplaces was intimidating.

"There is," Scott answered, "but it might be worth it if it means we can show the entire world just exactly what OZT is doing to the people who become sentinels."

"Maybe." Remy wasn't sure he agreed, but now wasn't the time to try to hash it out. He would have to wait until he had a more concrete idea of what Scott wanted to do. But, it did bring to mind something else that might very well have bearing on what Scott hoped to accomplish.

Sighing, he fished the copy of Jubilee's death certificate out of his pocket and held the folded piece of paper out to Scott. "If y' want t' show de world what Bastion's doin' t' people, I t'ink dis might be a good place t' start," he said quietly.

Scott unfolded the paper, read it, and swore softly. He handed it off to Wolverine then leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He seemed suddenly exhausted.

Logan reared out of his chair with a snarl of rage, crushing the paper in his hand. Remy heard the gruesome sound of his claws emerging from their sheaths, followed by the patter of blood drops on the carpet. He stalked away from the group, toward the windows.

"Jubilee's dead," Remy told the others by way of explanation. It hadn't come as a surprise, really, but that didn't change the grief he felt at the loss. She'd deserved better.

Across from him, Betsy covered her mouth with one hand in an expression of horror, but just as quickly recovered. "Do you know what happened?" she asked.

Remy shrugged. All he knew was what was on the certificate. "Says she was in a plane crash here in New York a few days ago."

Scott looked up. "It listed her as a… quote… 'pre-transformation prime sentinel.'" There was venom in his tone.

Logan uncrumpled the piece of paper in his hand and looked at it. "Cyke, I'm gonna go see this… Dr. Reyes," he read the name off the certificate. His voice trembled with suppressed fury. "Find out what really happened ta her." He paused. "And claim the body."

Scott just nodded. "Be careful."

#-#-#-#

Remy was thoroughly exhausted by the time he made it back to his quarters that evening. His mind continued to spin through the implications of Warren's proposed legal action, as well as Scott's plans for the X-Men. He opened the door expecting-- even hoping-- to find Rogue still asleep, but instead she was seated at the desk in the corner of the bedroom. She looked like she was filling out the paperwork he'd left for her.

She straightened as the door opened, and Remy's stomach curled into a hard knot. Paperwork that included their marriage certificate, which she still needed to sign, as well as the forms to file if she wanted to change her last name, and some preliminary things from his lawyer related to adding her name to his bank accounts and such.

"Hey," he said by way of greeting as he came inside and let the door swing shut behind him.

Rogue turned. "Hi, sugah," she said softly.

Not knowing what else to do, Remy walked forward into the room, shrugging out of his coat as he went. He tossed the duster absently on the foot of the bed.

Rogue turned in her seat to follow his progress. He could read tension in the set of her shoulders and the colors that made up her form, and steeled himself.

She tossed her pen down on the desk with a sigh. "This is going ta be really awkward, ain't it?"

Remy swallowed a snort and ran a hand through his hair. "Prob'ly." He kicked off his shoes. "How are y' feeling?" he asked rather than let the silence stretch.

She rolled her shoulders as if checking, and then shrugged. "Okay, ah guess." A note of humor came into her voice. "An' before ya ask, yes, ah went ta see Beast earlier. Ah've got a nice set o' scrapes an' bruises, but nothin's broken."

Remy felt the familiar, blinding flash of rage at the thought of how she'd gotten her injuries in the first place, but he did his best to battle it back down. He wasn't mad at her, and didn't want to make her into a target of opportunity.

Rogue watched him, her body language uncertain. "Ah… uh…" She picked up the pen and fiddled with it, a glow of heat creeping into her cheeks. "Ah also had Hank start me on the Depo Provera shot." At his blank look, she added, "Birth control."

Remy blinked, thoroughly shocked, and decided he needed to sit down. The foot of the bed provided a suitable place, so he plopped down on it and stared at her. He couldn't begin to sort out the emotions brawling inside his heart.

"What happened, chere?" he finally asked when he couldn't stand the swirling confusion any longer.

"What do ya mean?"

Remy bit back a sarcastic response. Instead he raised his left hand to show her the ring he wore and looked away as he tried to gather his thoughts. "A week ago, I would've sworn we were over, an' dat y' wanted nothin' t' do wit' me or de Guild."

She shrugged. "A week ago, ya would've been right… well, about the ovah an' the Guild parts." Again, there was a note of humor in her voice.

"So what happened?" he repeated.

"Besides me gettin' hit upside the head with a clue-by-four?" She gathered up the papers from the desk in front of her and came to sit beside him. She leaned her elbows on her knees with the papers clasped in both hands. She was close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her, but not quite touching.

She sighed. "Ah guess ah finally realized that the only thing standin' between me an' mah dreams was… me." She looked over at him, and he wondered what expression might be on her face. "Ah know how ta live in this world, Remy—ah was raised to it. Ah spent a lot o' years tryin' ta convince mahself ah didn't belong, but ah do. If ah'd paid any attention ta what ah'm good at an' the kind of man ah'm attracted to…" She shrugged again. "So, here ah am. Kinda late ta the party, ah know, and ah'm sorry about that. If ah'd figured all this out a while ago it would've saved ya a lot of grief."

Remy needed a moment to absorb her words. She'd resisted everything having to do with his life outside the X-Men for so long and with such determination that he didn't quite know what to make of the reversal.

"Would've saved us both a lot of grief," he finally said. He couldn't begin to count the number of arguments they'd had that stemmed directly from this one issue. Hesitantly he reached over to stroke the heavy waves of hair that tumbled across her back. She made a little humming noise of pleasure and tipped her head back. For a while, Remy lost himself in the sensation of the silken threads sliding beneath his fingertips. Desire stirred in his chest, tightening his groin, but he didn't want to surrender this quiet, perfect moment. Especially when he knew she was in no shape for anything else.

As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, she slowly straightened and turned to face him. Remy let the last strands of her hair trail through his fingers as she pulled away, and didn't try to reach for her again.

He'd completely forgotten the papers she held in her hand until she raised them with a tiny rustle. "So how long have ya known mah real name?" she asked, her tone curious rather than accusing.

Remy flashed a crooked smile. He'd known the question would come, given that he'd had Diedre put her legal name on all of the paperwork. There didn't seem to be any reason to avoid it any more.

"Longer than I've known you, actually," he answered.

He watched her digest that, her heat signature shifting as she thought. "Because of Mystique," she finally concluded, and he nodded.

"Oui, chere." He shrugged. "I always do my homework."

She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "Why didn't ya ever tell me?"

He raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Y' really need t' ask?"

She snorted sourly. "Okay, probably not." She set the papers on the bed beside her and leaned back, propping herself on her hands. She cocked her head to the side as she regarded him. "Just foh the sake of clarity," she began and he tensed, sensing the gravity behind her words. "Is there any reason left for ya to not ta tell me things?" Though he couldn't see her gaze, he could tell it was steady.

Remy froze as a cold shiver worked its way up his spine. But he knew this was one topic he couldn't avoid, not if he wanted a real future with the woman seated across from him. He took a deep, bracing breath. "In general, no, chere." He answered the broad strokes of the question first. "Y' gone an' turned y'self into my partner in crime, so t' speak, so y' gon' need t' know everyt'ing." He gave her a thin, sardonic smile that died almost immediately.

Rogue's heart rate picked up, a nervous patter that perfectly matched the nausea churning in his gut.

"But?" she prompted after a moment.

"_But_ dere are a couple o' t'ings-- one t'ing, really-- out o' de past--" His hands closed involuntarily into fists as the memories rolled over him. He looked away from her, unable to breathe until he'd forced the images back down, burying them once again in the mired depths of his heart. "--dat I jus' can't talk about."

She straightened and laid her hands in her lap, where they fluttered like a pair of trapped birds. "Why not, sugah?"

He bit his lip then forced himself to look her in the face. "Some t'ings can't be forgiven, chere."

She was silent for several long moments, but eventually she stirred. "Okay," she said softly.

"Okay?"

She nodded. "Yeah. There are some things in the past that ah'd rather not talk about, either. An' ah know how much this one hurts ya," he could hear the echoes of that pain in her voice. She sat forward again and picked up the papers, cradling them in her lap. "Ah just don't want ta be shut out of ya life any more."

"Non, chere," he agreed as the sick feeling in his stomach began to fade. He shook his head. "I won' do that."

He watched her heat signature settle and figured it was his turn to bring up a difficult topic. "Since we're clarifyin' t'ings here," he began, and saw her tense expectantly. He braced himself. "Are y' still plannin' t' break out de mother hen routine whenever I happen t' disappear wit'out expressly tellin' y' what's goin' on?" He kept his tone mild, but made no effort to mince words with her. It seemed to be the new standard in their relationship.

She jerked, and though he saw her signature spike with anger, she didn't immediately respond.

"First off," she said severely once she did speak, "foh most o' the time ya been with the X-Men, ya had me convinced ya were nothin' but a small-time hooligan an' a scoundrel."

Her description ticked his sense of humor and Remy clapped a hand to his heart. "Small-time, chere? Y' wound me."

She snorted, and her tone softened. "Anyway, there were plenty o' times when ah really thought ya were gettin' in over yoh head." She straightened her back in a small stretch and pressed the heel of one hand against her ribs. Her voice took on a reflective quality. "But that ain't the real reason, ah suppose."

Remy waited for her to go on.

Wincing, she leaned back once again and braced herself on her hands. "Ah was scared, Remy. Just… scared."

"Of what, chere?"

She sighed. "Of losin' ya-- havin' ya up an' disappear on me, whether it was because ya left the team or because ya died in some dark alley somewhere." She looked away from him, her gaze roving around the room. "You're the _only_ man who's ever… wanted me… just the way ah am, powers an' all." She raised a hand to her face, and with a sharp stab of dismay he realized she was wiping away tears.

Without thought, Remy reached for her, capturing her face in his hands and drawing her close for a kiss. He felt her hesitate in the moment before their lips met and immediately gentled his touch. Her breath trembled as he completed the motion, and the touch of her mouth sent an electric jolt through him. Rogue surrendered immediately, pressing against him. Her lips parted, granting him access, and with a sense of delight he deepened the kiss. He'd had no intentions of trying to push her down this path tonight, but he would happily go with her just as far as she was willing to take him.

He felt the change the moment her fear kicked in. She went rigid in his arms and pushed away from him with a small, panicked cry. Remy let her go. She scooted back, tucking her feet up under her and wrapping her arms around her midriff.

Remy tried to hide his disappointment.

"Ah'm sorry," she said, her eyes fixed on the bedspread. Both her body language and heat signature portrayed acute embarrassment.

He shook his head. "Don' be." He knew her issues with touch went deeper than just the constraint of her powers. And as much as she frustrated him, more than anything he wanted to see her set free from her inhibitions-- able to express herself in the most fundamental, sublimely human way possible.

Sniffing a bit, she gathered up the papers she'd dropped when he kissed her, arranging them in a neat pile. "Ah'm gonna go finish these--" She gestured awkwardly toward the desk. "An' get 'em ta Diedre." She climbed off the bed and went to seat herself in the desk's lone chair.

Remy ran his hands through his hair as his exhaustion descended on him once again. Sighing, he pushed himself to his feet, scooped up his abandoned duster, and headed for the walk-in closet on the far side of the room. Once there, he hung the coat up then stripped down to his boxers in preparation for bed. He paused. Given what had just happened between them, he had no idea how Rogue might react to him wandering half-naked around the bedroom, but a mischievous little voice inside him insisted it could be fun to find out.

Considerably heartened, he emerged from the closet and headed casually toward the bathroom. The scratching of Rogue's pen stilled. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her head turn to follow him.

"Enjoyin' de view, chere?" he asked innocently.

Her head jerked forward, and she immediately bent over her paperwork, a bright flush marking her cheeks.

Remy smirked and continued toward the bathroom. A moment later he heard the crinkle of paper and then a lightweight projectile struck him squarely between the shoulder blades. He heard the wadded paper ball hit the carpet and bounce away, its form invisible to his sight.

He laughed and ducked through the doorway before she could ready a second missile.


	34. Chapter 34

Chapter 34

Logan walked into the main hospital entrance at Our Mother of Mercy and went straight to the information desk. A security guard watched him alertly, but since Logan hadn't set off the metal detectors that flanked the doorway, he didn't seem suspicious. It was perhaps the only upside of having his adamantium stripped by Magneto, Logan thought sourly.

Logan's tennis shoes squeaked on the lobby's worn linoleum as he approached the desk. Like the flooring, it, too, appeared to be at least twenty years out of date. A middle-aged woman wearing a floral print dress and too much makeup looked up at him from her seat behind the desk.

"Can I help you?" she asked in a bored voice.

Logan pulled Jubilee's death certificate out of the pocket of his denim jacket. He unfolded the badly wrinkled paper, smoothing it on the surface of the desk. "I need to find the doctor that signed this." Logan held out the certificate. He didn't let himself think too closely about what it represented. He couldn't.

The woman tipped her head up to look at the paper through the bifocal lenses perched on the tip of her nose. "Are you related to the deceased?" she asked after a moment.

Logan nodded. "My niece." Privacy laws being what they were, he doubted he'd get any information from the hospital unless he claimed to be family.

"Are you her legal guardian?"

"Yes, ma'am." He did his best to keep his voice polite and non-threatening.

The receptionist seemed to accept that. Turning to her computer, she typed a few keys and then squinted at the screen. She picked up a nearby phone, looking back and forth between computer and handset as she punched in the extension, then transferred her gaze to Logan as she put the phone to her ear.

"Hi, this is Vicky at the Information Desk," she told whoever answered on the other end. "Can you page…" She picked up the certificate. "…Doctor Reyes for me?" There was a long pause, during which Logan had to forcibly suppress the urge to drum his fingers on the desktop. The receptionist busied herself shuffling papers around on her desk, the phone clamped between her shoulder and ear.

Eventually, someone must have come to the phone because Vicky paused and her gaze darted back to Logan. "Yes, doctor, I have a guardian of…" She referred to the certificate again. "…Jubilation Lee up here at Information. He wants to talk to the attending." She paused, and Logan clenched his hands into fists. He wanted to rip the phone out of her hand and talk to this Dr. Reyes himself.

"I'll tell him. Thank you." Vicky hung up the phone. She turned back to Logan. "Someone's on their way."

Nodding, Logan took back the copy of Jubilee's death certificate and moved a few feet away from the desk. He carefully folded the paper up and put it back in his pocket, then crossed his arms. Memories of Jubilee flashed to life behind his eyes, stinging his heart with their sweetness. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed her these past couple of years-- not until he knew he wouldn't see her again. She'd been a touchstone for him, a reminder of all the good things in life.

He looked up at a flicker of motion at the edge of his vision. A woman in pink scrubs walked toward him. Logan pegged her for a nurse immediately. She had that no-nonsense air about her.

"Are you the one who's looking for Dr. Reyes?" she asked, and he nodded.

"All right, then if you'll come with me, I'll take you to her." She turned and started down the hallway from which she'd come, her ID tags clacking together as she walked. "My name's Terry, by the way."

"Logan," he returned the introduction.

They walked quite a ways through the hospital, making odd-angled turns into new hallways as if the various wings of the building had grown up organically rather than from some architect's plan. Eventually they came to an elevator where the nurse stopped and pressed the down arrow.

Logan raised an eyebrow, the first stirring of suspicion in his mind. "Why're we goin' down?" he asked.

Terry glanced over at him, her expression mild. "Dr. Reyes' office is in the basement."

Logan chewed on that as the elevator arrived with an off-key ding. He followed Terry inside, noting that the car had doors on either end. He leaned against the wall, affecting nonchalance, but he made sure he could keep both doors-- and the nurse-- in his field of vision.

They went down three floors, and then the door at the back of the elevator opened on an industrial-looking hallway. Tubes ran the length of the ceiling and the gray paint looked like it had seen better days. A Hispanic woman stood in the center of the hallway, dressed in a blouse and slacks, with a white lab coat over the top. She was younger than Logan expected, and pretty in a severe kind of way.

The doctor wore a keen expression that gave way almost immediately to relief as the elevator doors opened. Logan walked forward, followed by Terry.

"Hallelujah," the doctor said, her voice edged with sarcasm, "an X-Man."

Logan uttered a growl and unsheathed his claws. He made a quick survey of the hall, but saw nothing that could be interpreted as a threat. Terry gasped at the sight of his claws and edged a few paces toward the doctor.

"Who are you?" Logan demanded. He shifted his weight forward, balancing on the balls of his feet.

The doctor didn't seem the least bit surprised by the sudden display. She met his gaze calmly. "My name is Cecilia Reyes. I'm a friend of Charles Xavier's."

Logan shifted to a slightly less ready stance but didn't sheathe his claws. "Prove it, lady."

Reyes smiled, a knife-thin crescent. "Gladly. Come with me." Without waiting to see his reaction, she turned and walked away.

Terry gave him one uncertain glance before falling in behind her.

Muttering a short string of curses, Logan retracted his claws and followed them. Something about the doctor's behavior made him think she was telling the truth. And now she'd gone and piqued his curiosity.

They walked a short ways down the hall, then turned and passed through an open door into what looked like it had been a maintenance area once upon a time. Now it looked more like a field hospital, with rolling curtains separating small areas from each other. Logan didn't see any patients, though.

He was about to ask Reyes where they were going when he broke out of the curtained alcoves and found himself standing in a new hall, in front of an observation window that looked in on an ordinary-looking hospital room. His breath whooshed out of him. Jubilee lay in the single bed, her head wrapped in bandages.

Logan pushed past the women without regard for politeness and rushed to the bed. He caught her hand, immediately feeling her warmth—the warmth of a living, breathing person, not the chill of a corpse.

Jubilee's eyes fluttered open. "Wolvie?" she asked, her voice thick and sleepy.

"I'm here, darlin'." He clapped his other hand over hers, squeezing her tightly. His eyes burned and he blinked hard to clear them.

Jubilee's eyes flew open. She shrieked and lunged at him, throwing both arms around his neck. "_Wolvie!_ You found me!"

He hugged her, hard, ragged laughter bubbling out of him. After a minute, though, she sat back down on the bed, crossing her legs Indian-style and pulling the light hospital blanket up to cover her legs. Logan hooked a nearby stool with his foot and dragged it over. He sat, resting his crossed arms on the edge of the bed.

Behind him, Dr. Reyes drifted into the room, eventually taking up a position on Jubilee's far side. "I'm sorry about the death certificate," she told Logan. "But it was only way to keep OZT from coming after her."

Jubilee's broad, happy smile dimmed. "I have so much to tell you about, Wolverine," she said. Shadows gathered in her dark eyes, and Logan was struck by how much she seemed to have aged since he'd last seen her. One hand reached up to finger the gauze wrapped around her skull. She glanced over at Dr. Reyes. "Can I take this stuff off yet?"

Reyes shrugged. "Sure. You should be pretty well healed by now." She reached over to help Jubilee unwind the gauze and then remove a layer of absorbent bandages from the top of her head.

Logan forced his expression to remain still as the last of the bandaging came away. Jubilee's bare scalp was criss-crossed with a myriad of scars. Some were pale-- obviously old enough to have faded-- but others were fresh and dark. He couldn't resist reaching out to cup her face in his hands, turning her head lightly as he examined the pattern of marks. Cold fury balled up deep in his gut.

"What did Bastion do to you?" he finally growled.

Jubilee shrugged and pulled away from his grip. "He made me a sentinel. But Dr. Reyes fixed all that." She met his gaze defiantly, daring him to express pity. "What happened to the X-Men and Gen-X? Is everyone all right?"

Logan nodded and forced his mind to function. "We haven't heard from Gen-X fer a long while, but Emma's got 'em hid away somewhere. We'd have heard about it if OZT got to 'em."

Jubilee looked relieved at that. "What about the X-Men? Did OZT attack the mansion?" Her expression closed in on itself, and Logan's stomach knotted. Gambit's prediction had been dead on, which Logan had known even if he hadn't wanted to acknowledge it. Bastion had taken her to extract the details of the X-Men's location and security system. Logan had been involved in covert operations for far too long to have any illusions about what that extraction had involved.

He pushed those thoughts away with an effort. "Yeah, they sent a team of assassins after us. But we got a warnin' in time an' managed ta get out ahead of 'em."

The shadows in her eyes retreated a step. "I'm glad."

"I'm just glad yer alive," he found himself saying, and was mortified to hear his voice crack. He cleared his throat self-consciously. "I knew ya'd find yer way home eventually."

Her smile returned, bright and bittersweet. "I always do, don't I?"

Dr. Reyes laid a hand on Jubilee's shoulder. "Why don't you get dressed. I've got some people I'd like both you and Wolverine to meet."

#-#-#-#

Scott leaned his weight on his hands, staring at the topmost of a pile of drawings that covered one end of Gambit's monstrous desk. OZT had one final assembly plant on the East Coast, tucked away in the back woods of Virginia. That was far enough afield to make Scott nervous about targeting it, even if the place hadn't had _any_ security. Which, of course, it had plenty. He and Remy had spent the last couple of days working their way through the drawings the Guild already had, looking for a feasible way in. The painstaking process of reading off every minute detail to let the other man assemble the drawings in his mind had pretty well burned them into Scott's memory as well. But he continued to stare at the plans as if he might spot some miraculous little detail that would crack the apparently un-breakable defenses.

Scott glanced at his watch, trying to keep his impatience in check. Gambit had been on the phone for more than an hour now, and the conversation had been almost entirely in Chinese. The other man leaned back in his chair with his feet propped on the edge of the desk, ankles crossed. He stared blankly at the ceiling, which Scott had come to realize meant he was visualizing-- using that prodigious memory to its fullest extent. Scott had finally gotten Jean to confirm for him that Gambit did, in fact, have a photographic memory, and he wondered what it would be like to have everything he had ever seen, heard or experienced permanently imprinted in his memory.

Scott straightened with a grimace and heard one of his vertebrae pop. On the far side of the room, the door to the Guildmaster's quarters opened and Rogue emerged, dressed in her usual jeans and sweater combination, and with her hair pulled back in a thick braid. Scott turned to greet her, and was once again startled by how much older the expression in her green eyes had become. The naïve, fiercely hopeful girl was gone-- dead, he suspected-- and in her place stood a hard-nosed realist whose analytical abilities he was quickly coming to respect. But he still found himself mourning the loss of the girl she'd been. And blaming Gambit for the change.

"Mornin'," she greeted him as she crossed the room.

"Good morning, Rogue" he returned automatically.

She came to a stop beside him, a funny little smile on her lips as she took in the incongruous sight of her tall, lanky, thoroughly Caucasian husband yammering away in an Asian language.

"How are you doing?" Scott asked, trying not to be too obvious as he studied her.

She tipped her head to look up at him, and her smile deepened. "Ah'm good, sugah."

Scott wasn't certain he believed her, but he didn't know how to challenge the statement without sounding critical. So, "What does being Guildmistress entail?" he asked instead.

Her smile dimmed. "A lot o' things ah was already doin', apparently." She shrugged. "Ah'm supposed ta look after the Clans, mostly-- makin' sure people are bein' taken care of, an' seein' to it that the Guildmaster takes their needs inta account when makin' decisions that affect the Guild as a whole." Her gaze drifted across the desk to Remy. "It's funny, really."

"What is?"

"For all the time ah've been with the X-Men ah've wanted ta find a way ta help out ordinary folks. Ah tried volunteering, but they always chased me off once the found out ah was a mutant. Ah even tried doin' one of those telethon fundraiser things." She shook her head at the memory. "But that makes a person feel slimy even if it's foh a good cause."

Scott found himself nodding. He remembered a few of her various attempts, and the bouts of bitter depression and anger that had followed.

She sighed softly. "Eventually, ah gave up. Figured bein' an X-Man was the only way ah was ever going ta be able ta do any good in the world."

Scott chewed on his lip, watching her sympathetically. He couldn't argue that the Guild gave her access to a huge population of people to help, many of them mutants, but at what price?

Rogue didn't seem to have any trouble guessing his thoughts. She favored him with a knowing grin. "Ah know it bothers ya all the way down to the bottom of ya proper, law-abidin' soul, Cyclops."

Scott snorted self-deprecatingly. He'd like to think he was still a good citizen, but the law-abiding part had gone out the window several months earlier. He still had hopes of someday stepping back across that line, more or less, despite how much more efficient it could be to disregard the law. He understood now why Logan had rolled his eyes so often when the X-Men gathered around the table in the War Room, but he didn't think it was a methodology he wanted to become too comfortable with.

Remy suddenly pulled his feet off the desk and sat forward, concluding his conversation with a friendly "Ciao", which struck Scott as odd, given the language Remy had been using. He hung up the phone then reached up to massage his neck, tipping his head from side to side to stretch the muscles. Rogue moved around the end of the desk and slipped her hands beneath his, taking over massage duty. Remy groaned in pleasure and let his head fall forward as she dug into his shoulder muscles.

Scott shook his head as he watched them. He had always wondered what really bound them together, particularly this past year or more as the relationship had slowly disintegrated under the pressure of his double life and her powers. They were quite possibly the last two people he would have thought had any business getting married, particularly as a matter of political necessity rather than actual desire. And yet, somehow the relationship seemed to be working.

He found it baffling.

Rogue finished her ministrations and leaned down to give Remy a hug. The pair traded quiet "good mornings" and then Rogue left, closing the office door quietly behind her.

Remy watched her go, but then turned back to Scott and tapped the piled drawings. "It c'n be done."

Scott reeled his wandering thoughts back in. "Is that what you got from your friend in Hong Kong?" he asked.

Remy nodded. "Sook's de best there is. Maybe de best there's ever been." He ran a hand through his hair. "I'm prob'ly de only t'ief on dis continent that could get inside dis monster, but I doubt I could've found de route." Remy paused, his red gaze eerie and solemn. "Y' sure y' want t' tangle wit' dis, Scott?"

Scott sighed as the question brought up all of his own nagging fears. "I don't know." He reached up to massage his brow, where a nascent headache threatened despite the early hour. "My gut's telling me that Warren's lawsuit could put a real crack in OZT's public face, and if we can wedge some hard evidence about what Bastion is doing to people to make the prime sentinels into that crack, we might just be able to shatter it completely."

"Y' talkin' about stealin' evidence. Dat's a different beast than gettin' inside t' blow de place up."

Scott leaned his elbows on the arms of his chair. "Actually, I'm talking about _recording_ evidence."

Remy's brows arched sharply. Scott steepled his fingers in front of him. "We don't have any idea what kinds of documents or records we'd find, and destroying the plant only damages Bastion's operation so much. But a video record-- a trustworthy one-- could cripple OZT. This is an opportunity we can't afford to waste."

Remy leaned back in his chair and gave him a piercing look. "What y t'inkin', homme?"

Scott braced himself. "Trish Tilby. She's probably the most trusted newscaster in the country right now. If she's _there_, reporting what she sees, Bastion can try to spin it any way he wants and no one's going to listen."

"Y' out o' y' mind." The words were flat.

Scott's lips thinned. "I realize that. What I want to know is if we can do it anyway."

Remy stared at him for several long moments, his face inscrutable, but Scott imagined he saw anger snapping in the strange eyes. "It can be done," he repeated. "But y' talkin' about a _huge_ risk, especially t' take a civilian camera crew inside."

Scott nodded tightly. "Understood."

#-#-#-#

Rogue walked out of the closet, trying to project as much confidence as she could. The deep burgundy evening gown clung to her curves, and she tugged self-consciously at the skirt as she walked.

Remy waited for her in the center of the bedroom, looking devastating in his tuxedo. A slow grin spread across his face as she emerged, and Rogue's stomach filled with butterflies.

"So what is this place ya takin' me to, again?" she asked as she approached, and was surprised to hear only the tiniest tremor in her voice. She felt far less steady than that. Against her will, her hand rose to her throat and the diamond necklace she'd last worn at their wedding.

"Jus' called de Club," he answered with a casual shrug as she came to a stop in front of him. His grin remained firmly in place.

Rogue resisted the temptation to press both hands flat against her rebellious stomach and instead hitched the gossamer shawl a little higher on her shoulders.

Remy raised one hand to her face, the tips of his fingers grazing the fine hairs that grew along her hairline. "May I, cherie?"

Rogue shivered at the near-touch, and her heart began to pound. This was becoming a ritual of sorts. Remy's heat-based vision couldn't readily distinguish lightweight fabrics from the body wearing them, and the man had developed a fascination with what she wore.

Swallowing hard, she nodded. "Go ahead, sugah." He always asked, and she could never bring herself to say no. Any more, she didn't really want to.

She let her eyes close as he raised both hands to her face. Feather light, his fingers brushed her skin and then her hair, following the strands as they swept upward into a French twist. Then, without pulling even a single hair out of place, his hands descended to her shoulders. He caught the edge of her shawl, sliding it gently down to rest in the crooks of her elbows. Her breath caught as he trailed his fingers up her bare arms and traced the tops of her shoulders inward. He found the slender spaghetti straps holding her dress in place.

"What color is dis?" he asked as he followed the straps down her back. The scent of his cologne enveloped her.

"Ah… red," she managed, her voice shaking. "More of a wine color, really."

"Pretty." His hands examined the conservative back of the dress then followed the straps forward again.

Needing to brace herself, Rogue caught his waist, knotting her hands in the fabric of his tuxedo jacket. She felt like she was tottering in her high-heeled sandals, hardly able to breathe as he started down into the valley between her breasts. His fingers traced twin lines of fire on her skin, right along the edge of the gown's plunging neckline. She'd nearly jumped out of her skin the first time he did this, but she was confident now that he wouldn't violate the boundary set by her clothing, and that was enough to hold the fear at bay.

Reaching the bottom, he retraced his route upward then followed a path just below her collarbones outward to her sides. His touch lightened almost to nonexistence across her still-sore ribs then firmed along the curve of her waist and hips. He scrunched his fingers in the fabric.

"Y' look beautiful, chere." The words were utterly sincere, and tinged with a kind of reverence that made her stomach quiver.

"Thanks," she answered softly and pulled her shawl back up around her shoulders. "Ya not so bad yaself." She pulled back a half-step, needing to put some distance between them to restore her equilibrium.

Remy chuckled, apparently willing to let the intensely personal moment dissipate, and offered his arm. She accepted, and they left the apartment together.

As they walked through the stone hallways and climbed a long spiral staircase toward ground level, Remy explained the function of the Club as one of the primary interfaces between the New York Guild and the outside world. He concluded with, "There are a couple o' clients I need t' chat wit' tonight-- contract disputes." He didn't look happy at the prospect. "An' I heard a rumor de Kingpin's back in town, so he may send somebody by."

"What am ah supposed t' be doin' during all this?" Rogue asked. She wasn't particularly comfortable with her new position yet, but Remy seemed more than happy to answer any question she posed.

He flashed her a grin. "I assume y' know somet'ing about workin' a room?"

"A little," she agreed. She'd been a teenager the last time she'd done anything of the sort, so she suspected her skills weren't terribly sharp.

He shrugged. "You'll do fine, chere. Y' got good instincts. Be beautiful, be charmin', an' keep y' ears open."

"Great, ah'm playin' hostess," she groused good-naturedly and his smile widened.

"Dat y' are." He sobered. "But don' forget that not everyone here knows about de Guild. Dis is an A-list club, an' we get a fair number o' folks who ain't there for anyt'ing but the atmosphere."

She nodded. "Got it."

They reached the top of the stairs and found themselves facing a security station like the ones guarding the other entrances to the Guild complex. Beyond it stood a reinforced metal door equipped with thick bolts that could be sunk into holes drilled in the stone. Rogue could hear the muted sounds of loud music and conversation coming through from the far side, and feel the vibrations through the soles of her shoes.

Remy nodded in greeting to the men manning the security station. One of them hurried forward to open the door for them, and Rogue was immediately blasted by a wave of sound. She cringed at the sight of the veritable sea of people filling the place, and felt Remy's hand on the small of her back.

He gave her a questioning look, and she drew her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

"Ah really don't like crowds," was all the explanation she was willing to give. These past few months she'd grown a lot more comfortable with casual human contact, but the idea of going out into that room with her hands and arms bare intimidated her at a level she didn't want to examine too closely.

Remy gave her one of those piercing stares that made her think he knew exactly what she was thinking, but he didn't push. He shrugged lightly. "Me either, chere, but it's part of the job."

Without waiting for a response, he led her out into the press. Rogue did her best to paste a warm, friendly smile on her face. This was what she'd signed on for when she chose this man, this life. But that didn't keep her skin from crawling every time some stranger brushed against her. She forced herself to focus as they made their way slowly through the throng, pausing every few steps for Remy to talk to someone or another. Rogue did her best to memorize names and faces, digging out all the old tricks her mother had taught her to make the job easier.

They had just turned away from a senior editor for Forbes magazine when Remy froze.

"What in de world?" he muttered.

Rogue followed his gaze toward the front of the club. At first she didn't see the source of his comment, but then an eddy in the crowd revealed an immensely heavyset man dressed in a white suit. Rogue recognized him immediately, and wondered what would bring the master of organized crime in New York to a club run by the Thieves Guild.

"C'mon, chere." Remy tugged on her hand. They cut a straight path through the crowd toward the Kingpin.

"Ah, Remy, there you are," the Kingpin said when they reached him. He leaned on a silver-headed cane, his expression neutral.

"Good evenin', Kingpin," Remy returned politely. "I'd heard you were back in town."

The Kingpin nodded and turned his attention to Rogue. He smiled, a sudden, jovial expression. "Why, Anna Marie, what a lovely woman you've grown into."

Rogue ducked her head, oddly abashed. "Thank ya, suh." She remembered the grand parties Mystique had taken her to when she was little. The Kingpin had hosted most of them, and he'd always had an etched crystal bowl full of candies for her to choose from.

He held out his hand to her. Rogue accepted, allowing him to lean down and kiss her on either cheek. She suspected he was also using the opportunity to check out her cleavage, but the Kingpin was not a man to antagonize, so she endured the contact with a bright smile and did not try to pull away once he straightened.

The Kingpin's gaze went over her shoulder. "Remy, I must hand it to you. You always seem to find the most extraordinary women."

Rogue bit the inside of her lip, her eyes narrowing. She wasn't sure which bothered her more-- the chauvinist attitude, or the plural on "women". Remy's history with the opposite sex was someplace she hadn't yet found the courage to venture, but the Kingpin's comment implied he was used to seeing Remy with a woman on his arm.

"Jus' lucky, I guess," Remy responded from behind her. There was little emotion in his voice, which was all the confirmation Rogue needed. Cold, sinking dread invaded her stomach and left her feeling ill.

The Kingpin released her hand and Rogue retreated to her husband's side, her expression carefully schooled. Remy caught her hand, threading his fingers through hers, but his gaze remained on the Kingpin. Rogue fought down the desire to yank her hand away.

"So what brings y' t' my club?" Remy asked the other man conversationally.

The Kingpin's expression turned distinctly businesslike. "I received a visit yesterday from a… mutual acquaintance. He rarely leaves Bogota, so the matter he wished to discuss is obviously of great importance to him."

Remy raised his eyebrows in a polite invitation for the Kingpin to go on. Rogue didn't know exactly what they were talking about but if the visitor was from Colombia, chances were it had to do with drugs, which didn't help her mood any.

"Apparently, he has… misplaced a few small items of personal significance." The Kingpin switched his cane to the other hand and leaned on it once again. "And he wanted my help in recovering them."

Rogue chewed on the enigmatic statements, trying to decipher them. It sounded very much like a Colombian drug dealer was leaning on the Kingpin to have something… something_s_… returned to him. Things the Guild had stolen, perhaps? And now the Kingpin was, in turn, leaning on Remy. The threat was clear, despite the Kingpin's benign tone.

_This_ was the life she'd committed herself to. Rogue's stomach twisted, searing her throat with the taste of bile.

"What did y' tell him?" Remy sounded only vaguely interested, but neither she nor the Kingpin was fooled.

The Kingpin shrugged. "Only that I had no direct knowledge of his missing items, but would be happy to look around."

Remy echoed his shrug. "I suppose I could do de same."

Rogue silently ground her teeth. She'd forgotten how much she despised the layers of double-talk and insinuation that permeated her mother's lifestyle... Remy's lifestyle… and now her own. How would she ever _truly_ know what was real and what wasn't, when this kind of maneuvering was as integral to that life as breathing?

"Very well." The Kingpin dismissed the topic with a wave of his hand, and Rogue forced her mind back on track. She could deal with such things later. It was too dangerous to let herself get distracted now.

"Since I'm here," the Kingpin continued, "I think I may take in a few rounds of blackjack, assuming there's a suitable table." He looked around the crowded nightclub, his expression just shy of disdainful. "If you'd be so kind as to show me the way?"

Rogue saw Remy's lips thin, and her chest tightened. The Kingpin must be really angry if he was treating the head of the Thieves Guild like some kind of casino host. Though the Guild had neither the size nor breadth of the Kingpin's organization, Rogue knew it wasn't something to be dismissed, either.

Remy gave the Kingpin a charming smile and gestured toward the back of the club. "Right this way, misseur. I'm sure you'll find our private tables to your liking." He slipped into the obsequious host roll so smoothly that it became a mockery, and Rogue had to admire his skill despite the churning pit in her stomach.

The Kingpin made a small, irritated noise, but gestured with his cane for Remy to lead the way.

#-#-#-#

It was past 2:00am by the time they made it back to their quarters. Remy suppressed a sigh as Rogue closed the door behind them with unnecessary force. She'd been spoiling for a fight all evening, though she'd done a credible job of maintaining her composure at the Club. He undid his tie and the top button of his shirt then turned to face her. The night was obviously about to get longer, so he might as well be comfortable.

Rogue stood with her arms crossed over her breasts, her heat signature flaring unevenly. Every line of her body projected hurt and anger, and Remy mentally catalogued a list of probable causes. But he held his tongue, figuring he should give her the first shot.

"So." She flexed her fingers on her biceps. "Ah don't know whether ta be flattered or mortified that ah fit the 'extraordinary woman' mold ya apparently _very_ well-known foh."

Remy kept his expression still with an effort. The Kingpin had sunk that barb with the finesse of a true professional.

"I have good taste, yes," he agreed mildly when he was certain he had his reaction under control.

He heard her sharp intake of breath and unconsciously steeled himself. "Ya not even going ta try ta deny it, are ya?" She unfolded her arms, hands clenching into fists at her sides as she stalked toward him. "All this time, ah had this strange notion that maybe ah meant somethin' to ya. That ya actually _cared_. About _me._"

Remy throttled the desire to grab her and shake her. "I do, chere," he ground out.

"Ya got a strange way of showin' it."

"Oh, really?" The words dripped sarcasm. Remy knew he shouldn't be letting this make him so angry-- he'd deliberately kept some aspects of his playboy image alive, after all-- but he couldn't seem to help it. "At any time durin' the past couple o' years, if I'd asked y' to come t' Paris wit' me-- o' Monte Carlo, o' Rome, o' wherever-- because I was workin' and needed y' t' help me blend in, would y' have gone?"

Rogue shook her head sharply, her heat signature flaring bright with fury. "Oh no, ya do _not_ get ta sleep around an' then make like it's all mah fault!" Her breath caught in angry little sob. "Has it all just been some kind o' game to ya? A little side project in between jobs?" She raised her chin, her voice mocking. "The great Master thief seein' if he could steal the heart of a woman no man can ever touch?"

Her accusation cut deep. Remy closed the distance between them and caught her by the arms.

She twisted hard, trying to get away. "Don't touch me!"

Remy tightened his grip, pulling her close. "Do y' want the truth, chere, or do y' jus' want t' keep yellin'?" he demanded.

She froze, her entire body tense. He could hear her breath hissing through her teeth. "Let go of me," she finally said, her voice icy.

Remy released her so abruptly that she staggered. Recovering, she wrapped her arms around herself and tucked her chin against her shoulder.

In the painful silence that followed, Remy tried to get a grip. Her misimpression really was understandable. It was. If only she weren't so deadly accurate with that razor-edged tongue of hers.

Frustrated, he yanked his hair out of its queue and raked through it with his fingers. "Do you want de truth?" he asked again.

Rogue uttered a small, broken laugh. "Sure, sugah. Let me have it." The resignation in her voice hurt almost as much as her earlier accusations.

Remy braced his hands on his hips and stared at the ground as he tried to sort his thoughts. "First off," he began, "I haven't slept with a woman for…" He did a quick bit of mental math, "a little more than two an' a half years."

Her head snapped up at that. She stared at him for several long moments, her thoughts unguessable.

"We've been datin' longer than that," she finally said, her tone full of reproach.

Remy swallowed a snort and sent a brief prayer to the saints for patience. "True 'nough," he allowed, and watched her signature ripple. She made a strange, wounded-animal kind of noise and sank onto the foot of the bed, wrapping her arms around her stomach. She rocked slowly back and forth.

"It really was just a game for ya, wasn't it?" There was no accusation in her voice this time.

Remy didn't dare try to approach her. "Not really-- At least, not de way y' t'inking." He could barely explain to himself the fascination that had first drawn him to her. "I mean, yeah, it was a lot of fun flirtin' with y'-- pushin' y' limits. But dat wasn't why." He made an aimless gesture, struggling to put his feelings into words. "I saw de way they treated y'-- dis whole house full o' men, mutants all o' dem an' should've known better-- like y' were some kind o' exotic doll in a glass case instead of a livin', breathin' woman." He shrugged uncomfortably. "It made me mad."

Rogue drew a shuddering breath and swiped at her eyes. She didn't say anything, though, so he decided to press on.

"I didn' plan on fallin' in love wit' you."

Rogue jerked as if she'd been shot. "An' when was that?" she asked, her voice raw. "Was it before or after ya decided ta stop cheatin' on me?"

Remy's hands clenched involuntarily at his sides. _What a mess y' made o' dis, LeBeau._ "You c'n have all the gory details if y' want, chere." He tried to keep his tone reasonable. "But does it really matter? What's true is that I do love y', an' y' the only woman I want." He silently cursed the power suppression field that made it impossible for him to look into her eyes. "An' oui, I've taken a lot of women out t' dinner or out clubbing or whatever suited de purpose of keepin' me alive an' out o' prison, but that's all it ever was."

Rogue didn't answer immediately. She sat with her head down, her shoulders slumped. At first, Remy thought she was wringing her hands in her lap, but after a moment he realized she was twisting her wedding ring around on her finger.

Remy waited, but eventually the silence became too much. He crossed to where she sat and sank to his knees in front of her. Cautiously, he reached out to take her hands in his. She flinched at his touch, and the pain of that nearly took his breath away, but she didn't pull away, and after a moment her fingers tightened around his.

"No more, Remy." She raised her head to look at him, her voice fierce. "Keepin' ya alive an' out of prison is mah job now. So if ya need a date, or an alibi, or a distraction or whatever, it'd better be me. Ya hear?"

The tight band around Remy's chest began to loosen at her words. "I never wanted it any other way," he assured her.

She nodded, sniffling. A moment later she gently extracted her hands from his grip and stood. Remy rose as well and moved back a couple of paces to give her room. She walked unsteadily over to the bedside table and pulled several tissues from the box there. Remy watched as she dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose. Then, grabbing a couple more tissues, she came back over to where he stood.

She kept a bit of distance between them and once again crossed her arms, though this time her body language was reserved rather than angry. "Ya must hate me," she said. "Two an' a half years is a long time."

Remy had no idea how to respond to that. "I don' hate y'," he ventured cautiously, "an' it was my choice t' make."

She nodded again. "Ah know. But still."

He shook his head. "But not'ing, chere." He decided to risk closing the distance between them. He raised one hand to stroke her cheek, relishing the silken texture of her skin. "Y' worth waitin' for."

She tipped her head into the caress, and Remy could feel her lips curving upward in a smile against his palm.

He sighed softly. For tonight, at least, it was enough.


	35. Chapter 35

Chapter 35

Scott sat back in his seat at the head of the table, watching the X-Men. It had been a long time since they'd all been in a room together. The meeting room Warren had provided sat in the center of one of the upper floors of the Worthington Industries building. The walls were all made of semi-transparent glass panels, and the floor was a single sheet of slick black marble. A large LCD display hung at one end of the oval-shaped room, its screen currently blank. Low profile speakers sat at intervals down the center of the long table, like a string of black stepping stones. Warren sat behind a small desk tucked into the corner of the room near the LCD display, working on hooking up a laptop computer to the tangle of equipment there with an occasional comment from Sam.

It had taken some doing to get all of the X-Men out of the complex and to the Worthington Industries building. Working out the logistics of moving that many people by different routes and transportation methods, none of which could be traceable back to the complex, had been quite a feat. But when Logan had called, asking if it might be possible to call an old-fashioned team meeting, something in the other man's voice had convinced Scott to make it happen.

He glanced over at Gambit. The Cajun was once again dressed in worn jeans and a faded t-shirt in his guise as Worthington's resident security expert. He sat on the edge of the table at Scott's right, kicking his feet like a little kid as he talked with Bobby, Elisabeth and Ororo. To Scott's left, Jean and Hank chatted amiably. A little further down, Bishop sat stiffly in his chair, his gaze fixed on a quiet but intense conversation going on between Rogue and Joseph on the far side of the table. Mystique stood a short distance beyond him, arms crossed, and her attention apparently focused on those two as well. Gambit, he noted, was also keeping an eye on the discussion, though he gave no sign that it concerned him in any way.

The screen at the far end of the room came to life suddenly, accompanied by a hiss of static from the tabletop speakers. Logan's face appeared, larger than life as it filled the entire display.

"Finally," he growled. "Took ya long enough."

"Sorry," Warren said as he stood up from behind the laptop. "We had a few technical difficulties."

There was a general shuffle as the X-Men found their seats. Rogue patted Joseph on the forearm before rising and returning to her seat on Gambit's far side. Joseph watched her with a frustrated expression which disappeared as people settled into the chairs around him. Warren took the seat closest to both the screen and the laptop and Elisabeth sat down beside him. Both were dressed expensively, as befitted the CEO of a Fortune 500 company and his girlfriend, but they looked out of place next to the rest of the X-Men. Gambit hopped down from the table and collapsed into his chair in a boneless slouch. With one hand he massaged his thigh where Michael Tyre's exoskeleton had impaled him, as if the old injury was bothering him today.

The room quieted by degrees and Scott turned his attention to the screen. "The floor's all yours, Logan," he said.

"Right." Logan cleared his throat. "I went to the hospital like I told ya I was going ta, and I found out some things."

Scott's gut tightened instinctively, a reaction he saw reflected around the room. But Logan's pronouncement was followed almost immediately by a spate of girlish giggles from somewhere off camera.

"You big lug! You're so mean!" the off-camera voice scolded Logan. Scott barely had time to register the familiarity of that voice before Jubilee's face crowded on to the screen. She wrapped her arms around Logan's neck and pressed her cheek against his as she waved into the camera. "Hi guys!"

"_Jubilee!_" The exclamation came from a dozen places around the room as Logan's face split in a huge grin. All of the X-Men began to talk at once.

Scott could only stare. She was alive. His heart swelled, feeling like it might burst out of his chest at any moment. Jubilee was _alive_. Laughing, Jean threw her arms around him in an exuberant hug, which he gladly returned. How long had it been since they'd gotten truly good news?

The tumult eventually dwindled. But before Scott could figure out what to say, Ororo leaned forward, her expression intent.

"We believed you dead, child. What happened?"

Jubilee's smile dimmed. She let go of Logan and perched on the edge of his chair, tucking her hands in her lap. Only then did Scott properly note that she appeared to be bald beneath the bright pink bandana she was wearing and his stomach did a little flip. She looked like a cancer patient.

"I'm supposed to introduce everybody first, before I get into that," Jubilee said.

"Introduce everybody?" Scott frowned, uncertain how to take the statement.

Jubilee nodded, but it was Logan who spoke. "Yeah. When I found Jubes here, I also found some other folks yer gonna want to talk to." Logan nudged Jubilee off the chair and then stood as well. The screen filled with a closeup of the pattern on Logan's shirt, then cleared as he stepped away from the camera. To Scott's surprise, the room behind him was full of people. They sat or stood in an uneven ring inside what looked like a hastily converted storage area. Shelves lined the walls, filled with assorted stacks of unidentifiable equipment.

"Dr. Reyes, is that you?" Hank leaned forward, adjusting his glasses.

An angular Hispanic woman off to one side nodded. "It's good to see you again, Dr. McCoy."

Scott raised an eyebrow and glanced sidelong at Hank.

"Charles and I met Dr. Reyes a few years ago at a conference in Geneva," Hank told the X-Men by way of explanation.

Jubilee and Logan took a pair of empty seats next to Dr. Reyes.

"So, anyways," Jubilee said brightly, "Dr. Reyes is the one that killed the sentinels transformation logic in my head." Before Scott could begin to digest that, she gestured to a slender Asian man on the doctor's far side. "This is Louis Kim. He's a rocket scientist from NASA—"

"Control systems engineer," the man--Louis--injected with a grin, and Scott got the distinct impression that Jubilee had already won the hearts of this group of strangers. "I've been working on decoding the sentinels' command and control software."

Feeling more than a bit overwhelmed at the rush of information, Scott held up his hands. "Wait. Back up." He split his attention between Jubilee and the Hispanic doctor. "'Killed the transformation logic' in your head?" he asked.

Jubilee's expression faltered, but then she straightened her shoulders and nodded. "Yeah."

"What does that mean?"

She snorted. "Exactly what it sounds like, dude. Bastion freakin' turned me into a prime sentinel and Doc Reyes zapped the transformation computers so I won't go nutzo when I'm around mutants."

"Oh my stars and garters." Hank stared at Jubilee, his blue eyes wide.

Scott decided that summed up his reaction pretty well, too. He tried to ignore the sinking sensation in his stomach. "Zapped them how?"

Jubilee rolled her eyes impatiently. "With a bunch of lasers. Can I finish introducing people now?"

Logan chuckled and squeezed her shoulder. "Relax, darlin'. Give 'em some time ta catch up."

Jubilee shrugged as if acknowledging his point, then gestured across the circle to a graying, middle-aged man in a tweed sports coat. "Moving on. That's Gordon. He's a doctor, too-- a microbiologist." She pointed to a small, mousy-looking woman beside him. "And that's Allie. She's a robotics expert. Anything you want to know about nannites, she can tell you."

Scott bit his tongue against a rush of questions as Jubilee continued around the circle, naming people and giving their specialties. By the time she got to the end, he was thoroughly impressed by the collection of scientific talent. It was just the right kind of group to really be able to figure out how the prime sentinels worked, and how to stop them.

Logan watched him, his expression keen. "It's Xavier's mutant underground," he said in a deceptively soft voice, and Scott felt an electric thrill sweep across his skin at the words. "We never knew what happened to 'em after we had ta leave the mansion, but the underground is up and runnin'. They've got an entire network goin'—world wide—and reams and reams of data." He gave Scott a significant look, which he briefly transferred to Gambit before returning to the X-Men's field leader. "The kinda stuff we've been lookin' fer, particularly if we're goin' after one of the big targets."

Logan turned to one of the others. "Okay, patch the rest of 'em in now."

A moment later, the screen split into two panes, one of which continued to show the room Logan was in. The second split into upper and lower halves. Moira McTaggert's face filled the top frame, and, after a few seconds of static, Reed Richard's face appeared in the bottom one.

Moira looked thin and worn, but she smiled when she spied the X-Men. "Ach, there ye are. It's a pleasure to see ye again, Scott."

"And you, Moira." Scott managed to find his voice. A million questions tumbled around inside him, clamoring for release, and he had to force himself to focus. "Where are you? Is Excalibur there with you?"

Moira nodded. "Aye, they're here. We've taken refuge at the Braddock estate, at least for the nonce." Scott saw a flicker of reaction from Betsy at the mention of her family's estate, and he wondered if she'd had any contact with her brother since the onset of OZT. "And we're ready to do whatever we can tae help the X-Men."

"The Fantastic Four also stand ready," Richards injected solemnly. "We're essentially pinned down inside Four Freedoms Plaza, but OZT does not yet possess the resources necessary to come in after us. Our research labs and manufacturing facilities are all intact and should remain so as long as we are here to guard them. We will be happy to assist in any way possible."

Scott could only stare, overwhelmed, as a buzz of conversation filled the room around him. Charles had built his underground out of the best and brightest minds the world had to offer, both mutants and humans-- all of them dedicated to the idea of peace between the species. And despite OZT, that network had survived-- even flourished-- no doubt bending the full weight of their abilities toward gathering as much information about the threat as possible.

And now they were all looking to him for a way to put that information to use.

Scott leaned back in his chair and tipped his head ever-so-slightly to his right. "Remy, _tell_ me there's a way to get into and back out of Four Freedoms Plaza with whatever technological wonders they can cook up for us," he told the other man in an undertone.

Gambit chuckled, a surprisingly gleeful sound. "Mon ami, I got goosebumps jus' t'inking about it," he answered, and Scott had to grin.

He leaned forward and clasped his hands before him on the table. "We're incredibly glad to see you all, and we'll take all the help we can get," he told the people on the screen.

Jean laid a hand on his arm, and turned her attention to Moira. "Can you tell us anything about the other X-teams?" she asked. "We haven't heard from anyone in months."

Moira nodded. "Aye, Jean, ye've been out o' touch. If it had nae been for the news reports, we'd hae thought ye dead."

"X-Factor has been working primarily in California," Reed told them. "I don't know how much you've heard about what's going on out there…"

Scott shook his head. "We don't have any sources in California. We don't know anything that isn't on the news."

Reed's expression turned grim. "Well, since the LA Massacre that part of the country has become a powderkeg. Los Angeles has decended into chaos. X-Factor is spearheading the government's efforts to restore order, but given the stranglehold OZT has on the city, they've been lucky just to stay alive."

In his peripheral vision, Scott saw Gambit pale at Reed's words. "Is dat what they're calling it?" he asked of no one in particular. "De LA Massacre?" He looked like he felt ill, but Scott could hardly blame him, given the tight, fraternal nature of the Guild. And the fact that only one of the two escaping aircraft had made it down in one piece. After a moment, Rogue reached over and slipped her hand into Remy's, her expression concerned.

"What about X-Force?" Jean asked, and Scott turned his attention back to the screen.

Reed shrugged. "We've had sporadic contact with them. They stay on the move to avoid OZT." He appeared to study something off to the side on his end. "They've had a few small successes against OZT's human enforcers, but nothing like you X-Men have managed."

Moira's expression sharpened. "Speaking o' which—how _hae_ ye been managing t' do such damage tae OZT? Excalibur would like tae imitate ye, if it's within our capabilities."

The question produced a ripple of reaction among the X-Men. Scott resisted the temptation to look toward Gambit to gauge his expression. He already knew the wary, silently warning gaze he would meet.

Scott chose his words carefully. "We have a number of people with covert operations experience in the X-Men, and we've been drawing heavily on that."

The camera recording Moira's face pulled back to reveal several others seated at a small table with her. Kurt Wagner perched on a chair to Moira's left, and Sean Cassidy sat to her right. Scott was surprised by Banshee's presence until he remembered a brief mention of him going to Muir Island to be with his daughter, who'd been injured when the damping field was first activated. He bit the inside of his lip. That seemed like a lifetime ago already.

Sean leaned forward, his expression intent. "But where have ye been getting yuir equipment? Weapons, explosives…? OZT has us completely outgunned over here. I'd give my right arm to have half o' what ye've been working with."

Scott grimaced. The X-Men were well-equipped because they had the Guild's deep pockets to draw on, not to mention the security of the Guild complex in which to store that equipment, and to plan and launch their attacks from.

"It's partly a matter of money," he told Sean, figuring that was the safest thing he could say. "Bastion was able to confiscate all of Professor Xavier's holdings, but not Worthington Industries—" He gestured toward Warren, "—or the private funds held by some of our other members."

Sean ran a hand through his golden-blond hair. "Well, I cannae say we're that fortunate."

"The Braddocks have been vera kind to let us stay here at the estate, but they cannae risk doing anything more for fear of OZT findin' out." Moira's expression echoed his frustration.

Scott drummed his fingers on the table for a moment, thinking, then stilled as he made his decision. "If it's money you need, we can help there. Just let us know how many zeroes." He grinned at the expressions of surprise that flitted across the others' faces. "And what form to send it in. If you have a secure bank account, that would be easiest. Cash will take some doing." He glanced sidelong at Gambit to see if the other was going to raise an objection, but the thief's expression remained mild, which he took as an assent.

Sean, Moira and Kurt looked at each other doubtfully. "OZT has tracked us down through bank accounts before," Sean finally said.

Warren swiveled in his seat to face Scott. "Not if we have Dyson set it up. It shouldn't be a problem to make an initial transfer of a couple million without raising any flags."

Scott nodded. He'd been thinking something similar. On the screen, the three Excalibur members looked a bit stunned, but pleased.

"Ya know, Scott, they're going ta need some contacts ovah there," Rogue drawled from her place. "Money's no use without a way ta spend it."

Scott turned to her and raised an eyebrow. The question had been put to him, but he suspected it had been meant for Remy.

Remy shrugged in response, a tiny flicker of motion. "I c'n make some calls," he told her in an undertone, "but it's a big favor t' be askin' on behalf o' strangers."

She flashed him a tight smile. "Ya forgettin' one o' the leaders of Excalibur is ya brother-in-law, sugah. It's a family matter."

The microphones must have been sensitive enough to pick up at least part of the quiet conversation because Kurt jerked his head around to stare at Rogue. "Did you just say brother-in-law, liebling?"

She chuckled. "Ah did."

Scott watched Kurt's face go through several transformations before settling into a pleasant smile. "That is… wonderful, Rogue. I'm very happy for you."

Rogue's expression darkened at the forced cheer in her brother's voice. She opened her mouth for a retort, but Remy squeezed her hand, cutting her off.

"Let it go, chere." Anger sparked in his gaze, all but invisible behind the flat, indifferent wall Remy had used for so many years to hide himself from the X-Men. Rogue gave him a mutinous stare.

Down the table a ways, Mystique laughed merrily. "Family Christmases are going to be _so_ much fun," she said in a lilting voice.

"Mama, shut up." Rogue transferred her glare to Mystique.

Scott cleared his throat. He needed to get the conversation back on track before things got ugly. "Listen," he told the three on screen, "we can do some digging-- see if we can find someone who can get you what you need."

A deep furrow had appeared between Moira's brows. "I cannae well argue with yuir results, Cyclops, but I am nae certain how comfortable I am with yuir methods. Ye _are_ proposing to put us in contact with an arms dealer, aren't ye?"

On the far side of the screen, Logan crossed his arms in an expression of annoyance that Scott was surprised to discover himself sharing. "There are worse things, Moira," he answered tersely.

"He's right," Sean told his companion.

Moira shook her head. "I dinnae ken how ye can be so accepting. Charles would nae approve."

Scott laughed sourly. "You'd be surprised, I think."

Sean leaned his elbows on the table and shifted his attention to Logan. "Wolverine, ye said something earlier about going after a 'big target'?"

Logan nodded, and Scott was just as glad to let the other man do the talking for a moment. In the back of his mind, he wondered if the fact that Moira's attitude irritated him made him a hypocrite, or simply a realist.

Logan settled back in his chair. "We're still workin' up the plans, so none o' this is set in stone, but we're gonna see if we can get inside one of the sentinels final assembly plants."

"Ye cannae be serious," Sean said. "If the ones on yuir side of the pond are anything like here, ye'd need an army."

Logan barked a laugh. "No army. We'll get in." He shrugged. "Gettin' out alive will be a bit more of a challenge."

"Ain' dat de truth," Gambit muttered, a clear note of sarcasm in his words.

Scott ignored him. If he really thought it couldn't-- or _shouldn't_-- be done, he wouldn't have put everything else on hold for three days to figure out how to break the plant's security.

"What we have in mind is a two-pronged attack," Scott told the others then proceeded to explain Warren's upcoming lawsuit and their plan to take a news crew inside the final assembly plant. He concluded with, "The biggest risk, of course, is the fact that this is a sentinels _factory_. If we're discovered, there will be far too many of them for us to be able to fight our way out."

"I think we might be able to help with that," Dr. Reyes said after a moment. "We've come up with a way to paralyze the sentinels' nannites-- temporarily, at least. We inject the neuro-paralyzer directly into the brain stem, but it can be absorbed through the skin or the lungs as well. It just takes longer to take effect that way."

Scott forgot to breathe for a moment as the magnitude of what she was offering registered with him. Gambit sat straight up in his seat, his pretense forgotten for a moment as he, too, realized the potential. Then, with hooded glance in Scott's direction, he slouched back down in his chair, once again inscrutable.

"Tell Richards we're gon' need a means t' disseminate de stuff as a gas or an ionized spray, from autonomous programmable dispensers." Gambit's voice barely reached across the short space that separated him from Scott.

"This little game of telephone is going to get old fast," Scott muttered in reply then raised his voice to repeat the request to Reed Richards.

The leader of the Fantastic Four nodded. "Done. Is there anything else we can provide?"

"Yes," Scott said even as the idea was coalescing in his head. "We could really use new uniforms-- everything we had went up with the mansion, pretty much. But we don't need the unstable molecules to work with our powers, obviously. What we need is high quality body armor with an eye toward stealth, but also instantly recognizable as the X-Men."

Reed frowned thoughtfully. "That should be no problem. Anything else?"

Scott shrugged. "Probably. Give me a couple of days and I can have a list for you."

Reed nodded. "Good enough." His expression sharpened. "Have you given any thought to how we will get these things to you? OZT maintains a cordon around the building that will not be easy to bypass."

Scott waved his concern away. "Don't worry about that. We'll take care of it from our end."

Eyebrows rose on screen at the high-handed statement, but Scott didn't let it bother him. Regardless of whether Gambit's real nature ever became known among the other X-teams, his skills were now a part of what the X-Men had to bring to the table, and Scott was not going to hedge on that.

"Very well, then. We'll talk again in a few days," Reed said. "Dr. Reyes has all the information on how to contact us." His gaze swept across the X-Men. "Until then."

Scott raised a hand in farewell as the image of Reed flickered and went black.

"You know, Scott," Sean said, "given what yuir hoping to accomplish, it might help for us to coordinate an event of some kind here, at the same time. If nothing else, it'll demonstrate that the X-Men aren't alone."

"Then you think vee should do as the X-Men have, buying weapons off the black market?" Kurt leaned past Moira to look directly at Sean. "Vee will hardly be any different from criminals."

At that, Mystique burst into peals of laughter. To Scott's surprise, Logan threw his head back with a roar, and after a moment Bobby dissolved into helpless laughter as well. Scott felt his own lips twitching and quickly pressed them together. He really shouldn't find this funny.

Beside him, Gambit looked like he was having just as much trouble keeping a straight face and Rogue was snickering outright.

Kurt turned to stare at them all like they'd lost their minds. Maybe they had, Scott decided.

"Don't ask," he advised. Then his thoughts turned solemn. "The truth is, we're operating _well_ outside the law at this point-- we have no choice. Whether you want to walk that path…" He shrugged. "Only you can decide."

#-#-#-#

Trish Tilby paced impatiently along the sidewalk, the tapping of her high-heeled shoes nearly lost in the background noise that was New York City at night. Eddie, her cameraman, stood a short ways away looking distinctly uncomfortable as he fiddled with his clip-on bowtie. His camera sat in its padded nylon case by his feet. People flowed up and down the street around them, most dressed for a night on the town. Brightly lit signs pointed the way toward various nightclubs, though the loud music spilling through the doorways was probably all the direction anyone needed.

Eddie caught her glancing in his direction and scowled. "Are you sure that note said to dress up? I feel weird standing around in this monkey suit."

Trish shrugged. "Hank said evening wear." She'd had to borrow a gown from a friend since her own place was under surveillance by OZT. The instructions made her very curious, though. The notes that simply appeared on her desk, written in Hank's unmistakable scrawl, usually gave nothing more than a time and place. She'd given up on wondering how the X-Men knew where she was. They seemed to be able to find her and her crew no matter how many times they moved locations, and no matter how well camouflaged they believed themselves to be.

_Why_ Hank wanted them dressed up was another question entirely. It allowed them to loiter on this street without drawing notice, but she hadn't found anything in her research that indicated OZT was involved in any type of activity in this area.

A limousine drove down the street, reflections from the streetlights painting bright streaks along its shiny black surface. Trish had seen a number of cars come through—many of them limousines like this one—pausing to disgorge their passengers in front of one club or another before driving on.

This one, however, did not stop at any of the clubs. Instead, it came straight down the street and pulled over in front of her. Trish instinctively took a step back, braced to run should a sentinel jump out of the car, and knowing she didn't stand a chance if it did.

The rear door swung open as the limo came to a stop. A blue-skinned man dressed in a tuxedo looked up at her from the back of the car. White feathers surrounded him like a cloak and gave him a strangely distinguished air.

Trish needed only a moment to recognize him. "Warren Worthington?"

"Get in, Ms. Tilby," he said.

Jerking her head at Eddie to follow, she slid into the seat opposite Worthington and discovered that he had a woman with him. Trish recognized her as well, from the society pages as well as her research on the X-Men. She nodded in greeting.

"Ms. Braddock."

The purple-haired Asian woman smiled. "Please, call me Betsy." She was dressed in a slinky little number of shimmering white that Trish suspected would look devastating next to her beau's wings.

She nodded. "All right. Betsy."

Eddie settled into the seat next to Trish, his camera in his lap, and Worthington pulled the door shut behind them. Immediately, the limousine pulled away from the curb and accelerated.

"Where are we going?" Trish asked.

Warren smiled, a surprisingly friendly expression. "The X-Men want to talk to you." He reached inside his jacket and withdrew two long strips of black cloth. He handed one of them to Betsy and held the other one up. "I'm afraid you can't see where we're going, however."

Trish wasn't too surprised by that. She'd interviewed a few people over the years who'd used similar methods-- including Magneto and the Kingpin. She allowed Betsy to tie the blindfold across her eyes without complaint. Her heart beat madly in her chest, though more from excitement than fear.

"Can I ask some questions while we drive?" Trish reached into her purse, locating her recorder by feel, and held it up for the two to see.

Warren chuckled. "Ask away."

Trish turned the recorder on and brought it up to her mouth. The slim piece of digital electronics didn't need to be held close to pick up sound, but it was an old habit she hadn't yet managed to break. "Interview with Warren Worthington III and Elisabeth Braddock, also known as the X-Men Angel and Psylocke, 18 October, location—unknown," she said then allowed her hand to fall back into her lap.

She organized her thoughts quickly. "Mr. Worthington, it has been reported that you have once again taken personal control of Worthington Industries, and that you are frequently to be found at WI's Manhattan offices."

"That's correct," he answered.

"Isn't that dangerous? OZT must certainly know where you are by now."

She heard a rustle of feathers as Warren shifted in his seat. "Oh, they know." His tone was by parts amused and steely. "They've already tried to send a couple of different agents into the building. One was a sentinel, one human. Neither got very far." He paused. "My security is excellent."

Trish cocked her head, wishing she could see his face and expression. "But why take the risk? Most mutants are hiding from OZT, but you're literally flaunting your presence here in the city."

"Someone has to stand up and show that they're not afraid of Bastion," Warren told her. "OZT tried to steal my company—and failed. They've tried to kill me, along with the rest of the X-Men—and failed. I'm a mutant and proud of it, Ms. Tilby. And I refuse to let Bastion dictate the course of my life."

Trish couldn't help but smile at the ringing statement. But she quickly bent her thoughts back toward business. "Does that mean you disagree with the X-Men's current hit-and-run tactics?" She had no idea how disastrous a schism inside the X-Men might be to the resistance effort, but it was definitely news.

Warren's voice took on a reflective quality. "Oh, no. The X-Men are doing exactly what they need to be doing."

Before Trish could decide what to ask next, the limousine rolled to a gentle stop.

"We're here," Betsy announced.

"You can take off the blindfolds now," added Warren. "Oh, and leave the camera here. You won't need it tonight."

Trish and Eddie both removed their blindfolds. Trish looked around curiously as their driver got out and came around to open the door for them. They were parked halfway down a plain and somewhat seedy-looking street lined with five- to ten-story brownstone buildings. Shops opened to the street, but were closed up for the night, their doors and windows covered by iron bars. The higher floors appeared to contain apartments. There was nothing by which this street could be distinguished from about ten-thousand others just like it in New York.

Trish climbed out of the car when it was her turn. She stood on the sidewalk, drawing her coat more tightly around her frame. The evenings were beginning to get cold. A few steps away, Warren shook out his wings, half-spreading them in a hissing rustle of feathers. Trish stared in fascination as he twitched them back into place, folding them to lie across his back like every picture she'd ever seen of the archangel Gabriel.

"This way," Warren said gesturing for the two reporters to follow. He led them to a set of cement stairs that descended below ground level, terminating in an unmarked metal door. He opened the door and held it as their party went inside.

Trish found herself in a small ante room that had probably been barren at one point but was now filled with sophisticated imaging equipment that formed a high-tech archway in the center of the space. Two very large men stood guard beside a door in the far wall, their stances wary and the weapons inside their suit jackets clearly visible. Another, slightly less imposing man stood off to the side at a control panel for the imager.

One by one Trish and her companions stepped into the arch to be scanned and then gathered on the far side.

"Mr. Worthington, Ms. Braddock." The rightmost of the Very Large Men nodded politely to the pair then shifted his attention to Trish. "Ms. Tilby, Mr. Mallory." Trish wasn't certain whether to be pleased or intimidated by the fact that these men knew their names. She was beginning to get a distinct organized crime vibe from the entire situation, which made her even more curious what she was doing there. And how it related to the X-Men.

The man raised a small radio to his mouth. "Let Mrs. LeBeau know her guests are here," he said into it, then turned and opened the door beside him, gesturing for them to enter.

Neither Warren nor Betsy seemed the least bit alarmed, so Trish worked on keeping her own nerves steady as she followed the pair through the doorway into a coat check. Loud, pounding music leaked through the closed door on the far side as Trish surrendered her coat to an ordinarily pretty young woman and received a plastic token in return.

Warren led them through the far door into a loud, crowded club. Trish took in the scattered craps tables and roulette wheels and the sea of well-dressed people with interest. Somehow, she doubted the Gaming Commission had any knowledge of this place.

A moment later, a strikingly beautiful young woman broke out of the crowd and approached them. She wore her red hair in an intricate updo that left her face framed in wispy white-dyed bangs, and her gown was a stunning affair the color of dark chocolate. She wore a string of emeralds at her throat, and everything about her spoke of wealth and charm.

The woman greeted both Warren and Betsy warmly, her voice a sultry Southern drawl.

"Hey, Rogue," Warren replied with a smile and hugged her. Trish blinked as the name registered.

"You're one of the X-Men," she blurted in surprise and immediately bit her tongue, embarrassed.

The woman didn't seem perturbed by her outburst, or concerned that someone might have overheard the name. She turned and extended her hand. "Anna LeBeau," she introduced herself with a smile. "But people call me Rogue."

Trish accepted the handshake and introduced herself in return. Afterward, Rogue repeated the process with Eddie, who looked just a bit dumbfounded but managed not to trip over his tongue.

"Well, c'mon y'all. Ah'll take ya t' the others." Rogue gestured for them to follow her. "But first ah've got ta find Remy an' drag him out o' whatever he's doin'." She rose onto her tiptoes, scanning the room. Then, apparently locating the object of her search, she started off into the crowd.

They wove their way through the tables. Trish wished she had time to stop and study her surroundings in more depth. This place hummed with a tantalizing energy, a sense of unseen things happening all around. She was certain there was more to it than just an illegal gambling club despite its appearance.

Their path took them toward a small knot of men surrounded by a swath of empty space. Two of the men looked like they were facing off, either in the middle of an argument or about to start one. One was tall, with long, reddish hair, the other shorter and darker. The quickly ratcheting tension in the area explained why everyone was keeping their distance, Trish thought, though, oddly, no one was stopping to watch the confrontation.

Warren caught Trish's elbow, jerking her to a stop a couple of steps into the clearing. "Let's stay out of this," he said as Rogue continued straight toward the group.

"Why? What's going on?" Trish pulled her arm out of his grip, but didn't try to move forward.

Warren didn't answer her as Rogue walked up beside the taller man and slipped her arm through his. He broke away from his opponent long enough to smile at her, though the expression was strained.

"Warren an' Betts are here, sugah," Rogue told him. The man glanced over his shoulder, taking in the foursome standing quietly off to the side without reaction, then returned his attention to the man opposite him.

The dark-haired man smiled and inclined his head toward Rogue. "You're looking well, Rogue," he said in a silky voice that made the hairs on the back of Trish's neck prickle in warning.

Rogue's companion stiffened, and Trish saw the other woman dig her fingers into his biceps as if to restrain him.

"Why thank ya, Adrian," Rogue answered brightly. "Ah'm feelin' pretty well these days, too."

Adrian's gaze narrowed a fraction as if her response angered him in some fashion, but his expression remained mild.

Rogue cocked her head. Then, with a strange smile playing about her lips, she squeezed the red-haired man's arm and stepped forward. "Ya know, ah haven't had a chance ta properly thank ya for everything," she told Adrian. "Without ya dedication ta protectin' ya… people," She stumbled just a bit and Trish wondered what word she had originally intended to use, "an' ya willingness ta do whatever needed doin', ah'm quite certain ah wouldn't be here today." She swayed toward Adrian, who was staring at her as if she'd suddenly grown fangs.

"Ah owe ya a debt ah can't possibly repay." Rogue laid one hand delicately on his arm and reached up to kiss him on the cheek. Adrian paled, and his face emptied of expression.

Rogue grinned at him, a sweet, cheerful expression that still sent a shiver down Trish's spine. "But ah'm gonna try."

And with that she turned back to the red-haired man, who slipped an arm around her waist as they walked toward Trish and her companions. His angular face was still and hard, and the demonic eyes smoldered with a kind of banked fury that made Trish's breath catch in her throat. This was a man to tread lightly around. She didn't know for certain if he was an X-Man, too, but it made her wonder if perhaps the mutant team might not be as dangerous as the government had always made them out to be, despite Hank's protests to the contrary.

The anger had disappeared from the man's expression by the time he reached them. He shook Warren's hand and nodded affably to Betsy before turning to Trish.

"Remy, ah'm sure ya recognize Trish Tilby, an' this is Ed Mallory," Rogue said, indicating each of them in turn. "Trish, Ed, mah husband, Remy LeBeau."

Trish filed the name away as she shook Remy's hand. He gave her a charming smile. "A pleasure."

Trish summoned a smile in return. It wasn't all that hard. The man was rather dazzlingly handsome, strange eyes notwithstanding.

The six of them made their way to the back of the club, where a recessed doorway led onto a series of hallways where the private rooms were located. This area was lavishly decorated, with expensive paintings and pieces of sculpture set at intervals along the walls, and what appeared to be genuine crystal chandeliers hung at the intersections.

Remy picked one of the doors and went inside, then held the door open for the rest of the group. Trish walked into a nicely-appointed room dominated by a large oval poker table. Two men and a woman congregated near one end of the table. The woman drew her attention first. She, too, was a stunning beauty, with rich mocha skin and a shock of pure white hair.

_Storm_, Trish identified her.

As she approached, the trio moved away from the end of the table. Trish was surprised to realize she also recognized one of the men.

"Bobby, it's good to see you again." Trish stuck out her hand as she walked up to him.

"Trish." She wasn't terribly surprised when the reception she got was cool. Hank McCoy was his friend, and given how things had ended between herself and Hank, she couldn't really blame him. But Bobby shook her hand, his expression neutral.

Rogue stepped forward to finish making introductions. Trish discovered that the final member of the trio was actually Scott Summers, a.k.a. Cyclops, leader of the X-Men. She shook his hand, trying not to be too obvious as she studied him. He seemed strangely normal for the leader of the most notorious mutant team in history.

"I'm sure you're wondering why we went to such trouble to arrange this meeting," Scott said as he gestured for her to take a seat at the table.

Trish did so, and the others all followed suit. "I am," she agreed. In fact, she was nearly dying of curiosity and was having a hard time biting back her many questions.

The X-Men's leader braced his elbows on the edge of the table and steepled his fingers. "We have a proposition for you, Ms. Tilby. You and your partner, here." He nodded toward Eddie.

Trish lifted one eyebrow at his serious tone. "We're listening."

"First, tell me what you know about the prime sentinels." Scott watched her face, his gaze both calm and piercing.

Trish leaned back in her seat and crossed her legs. "Hard data about the prime sentinels is hard to come by," she began. "According to OZT's press releases, the prime sentinels are made of a titanium alloy chassis wrapped in cloned human tissue, and run by a complex computing network. Primary power is provided by a set of fuel cells in the thighs, and propulsion is done with fairly standard jet-hover technology, which is why they need to refuel on a daily basis—the tanks are relatively small."

Scott's expression didn't change. "Is that all you've heard about them?"

Trish's stomach clenched. "No." She blew her breath out in a short sigh. "There are a lot of rumors surrounding the primes. Most of it is… crazy stuff. Horror movie stuff." Some of it was so gruesome it had nauseated even her, and she'd seen some ugly things in her day.

"Do you believe any of it?" The X-Men's leader watched her intently.

Trish considered him as she weighed her answer. She had the feeling a lot was riding on her answer, though she couldn't say why. "Do I believe that OZT is running mad-scientist labs, gouging out people's brains and replacing them with computers?" she asked sharply.

Scott's eyes filled with a sick kind of anger, and in that instant Trish's entire world-view shifted. She blinked several times, trying to adjust. "I… was about to say no, I don't…" She ran out of breath and couldn't seem to draw another. "It's true?" It was too horrible to contemplate.

Scott nodded. "Every prime sentinel was once a person like you or me."

She clamped down on her instinctive horror, shoving it away. Her job was to report the news, not react to it. "Can you prove it?" she demanded.

He nodded. "We can introduce you to someone who is a pre-transformation sentinel. Her transformation control logic has been disabled. You can talk to her doctor, as well as see her medical records and scans."

Gathering her wits, Trish nodded. "I'd like that very much. But even if everything you say is true, it's going to be hard to prove. One person's testimony isn't enough."

Scott nodded. "Yes, which is why we invited you here."

Trish's eyebrows hiked upward.

"How would you like to get inside one of OZT's sentinel final assembly plants? To see the process first hand."

Trish gaped at him. "Are you kidding?" If what the X-Men claimed was true, OZT was quite possibly the greatest evil to come along since Adolf Hitler. Exposing it would be the story of the decade. Perhaps the century. Her heart stuttered a beat at the prospect.

"No joke, Ms. Tilby." Scott's expression was a solemn as his voice. "We think we can get inside and we want you to come with us, to report what we find."

Trish moistened her lips, her mind racing. She could hardly believe the opportunity they were offering her. "I'm in," she heard herself saying before she'd consciously made the decision.

"It's going to be extremely dangerous," the X-Men's leader warned her. "We can't make any guarantees about your safety."

Trish shook her head impatiently. "I'm in," she repeated. There was no way she could turn down an opportunity like this, and she'd been in dangerous situations before. She glanced at her camera man. "Eddie?"

He looked less certain, but nodded. "Yeah. Count me in, too."

Scott nodded decisively. "All right. Then there's just one more thing."

The back of Trish's neck began to prickle again, that undefined warning sense that told her her position here was more precarious than she wanted to believe. "What's that?" She didn't bother to keep the suspicion out of her voice.

The X-Men's leader looked past her. "Gambit?"

Trish turned, not terribly surprised to discover the name belonged to Rogue's husband.

Gambit pinned her with an eerie, intimidating stare. "If y' come wit' us, Ms. Tilby, y' gon' end up seeing some t'ings y' shouldn't-- t'ings dat would be of great interest t' a number of intelligence and law enforcement agencies, if y' get my drift."

Slowly, Trish nodded. She'd had to deal with the military and its obsession with secrets as well as criminals wanting to protect their identities and methods.

His expression didn't change. "Good. Den y' understand why y' can't have y' tapes until we've had a chance t' go through them." He cocked his head. "An' why y' gon' need t' be very careful wit' what y' say t' anyone dat asks about what y' saw an' heard."

Trish kept her face still as she absorbed the meaning in his words. There'd been a reason for the whole production of bringing her to this well-hidden club. It was a demonstration of power-- a clear warning that the X-Men possessed the means and the will to do whatever they found necessary to protect themselves and their interests.

She didn't like it, but getting to the truth often involved doing things she didn't like.

"I understand," she told Gambit.


	36. Chapter 36

Chapter 36

Remy woke to the feather-light touch of fingers on his skin. He lay on his stomach, arms buried beneath his pillow and the Egyptian cotton pillowcase pressed against his cheek. He kept his breathing deep and even, his muscles relaxed. The response was instinctive—his trained reaction to being startled awake—and it served him well now. Keeping his eyes closed, he let his other senses inform him of his surroundings.

Rogue sat cross-legged on the bed beside him, lightly tracing the long scars that criss-crossed his back. Her fingers felt like a silk scarf trailing across his skin, and everywhere she touched she left him aching for those fingers to return. She shifted, leaning over him to follow the knotted line of a scar all the way up to its termination on his far shoulder. Her hair tumbled across him, soft and ticklish, enveloping him in the heady scent of her shampoo.

Rogue made a soft, curious noise. Her fingers drifted along his shoulder blade, coming to rest on a small, puckered circle of scar tissue.

"Bullet wound," she murmured. "Small caliber."

Remy had to search his memory for the source of that particular scar. He bit back a smirk. She'd been a Saudi princess, hadn't she? And her brother had taken offense at Remy sneaking into the palace--

"Uh huh. Ah saw that smile." Rogue's voice was full of amusement. "How long have ya been playin' possum?"

Caught, he cracked an eyelid and grinned up at her. "Not very long, cherie." He snuggled back down into the pillow. "I didn' want t' interrupt y'."

"Ah'll bet." There was a whimsical note to her voice, and to his surprise, she didn't withdraw. Instead, her fingers continued their gentle exploration.

She traced the outline of a crescent-shaped scar just below his ribs. "What was this?"

Remy grimaced. "Assassins did dat." The memories remained bitter despite the conversation he'd so recently had with his father. "De day they banished me from New Orleans." He would never forget watching Marius approach with a glowing poker clenched in his hand.

Rogue made an indecipherable noise in the back of her throat and brushed her thumb across the scar before moving on. She crossed his lower back to the spidery clump of surgical scars that were all that remained of the wound Michael had given him. She laid her palm flat against his back, over the scars.

"Ah was so scared ya were going ta die," she said softly.

Remy raised himself onto his elbows and turned his head to look at her. "Me, too." He shrugged. "At least f' a while there." His memories of that time were spotty, filled with long blank spaces and small, disjointed moments. For the longest time he'd been certain she was a figment of his imagination, her presence at his bedside merely a product of his desperate desire to see her again before he died.

She sighed softly and he could picture her lopsided smile. "Ah can't imagine where any of us'd be right now if ya had." She slowly withdrew her hand. "Especially me."

Remy watched her, wishing he could read her expression. He was afraid to reach for her, not knowing how she might react.

Rogue abruptly shook herself and made a circular motion with one hand. "Turn over." She chuckled, her cheeks brightening at the surprise that must have shown on his face. "Go on." Her tone was playful.

Not needing a second invitation, Remy complied. Grinning, he settled on his back and pillowed his head on one arm. The other fell rather naturally along the line of Rogue's thigh and he only hesitated a moment before letting his fingers come to rest against her leg. He could feel the warmth of her through the thin material of her pajamas and reflexively tightened his grip.

Her breath hitched ever so slightly, but she didn't freeze up or pull away. Instead, she leaned her weight on one hand while the other moved lightly across the skin of his chest. Remy forced himself to lie still under the exploratory touch, despite how much he wanted to drag her down onto the bed beside him and kiss her senseless. She would panic for sure, then.

Rogue located the long claw marks across his abdomen, and Remy tensed as she traced their length. "Sabretooth did this." It was a comment rather than a question. She didn't say anything else, though, and after a moment her wandering fingers moved on. Her touch gentle, she followed the uneven star of surgical scars that mirrored those on his back.

Remy slowly relaxed, marveling at how good she made him feel. If someone had asked him, even a few weeks ago, if a morning like this one would ever happen between them he would have pasted on a smile and said 'o' course', and not believed a word of it. Hoped, maybe. But not believed.

Rogue finished cataloguing his scars and returned her attention to his chest. She combed her fingers through the dusting of russet-colored hair, her demeanor oddly distracted.

"Penny for y' thoughts," he said after a minute.

Rogue started, and her hand stilled. Remy let go of her thigh in order to cover that hand with his own. Her heat signature, which had been fairly steady, began to flicker and spike.

Remy felt the first stirrings of concern. "Chere? Y' okay?"

"Ah… yeah, ah'm okay." Her voice had a nervous lilt to it. "Just tryin' ta make mahself spit out somethin' ah'm too scared ta say."

Remy raised an eyebrow as curiosity overcame his concern. "What's dat?"

"Um…" She took a deep breath, held it, and then abruptly deflated. "Oh, this is stupid." Remy could imagine her rolling her eyes like she did when she felt foolish. He held his tongue. Pushing now would only make her retreat into herself, or perhaps lash out.

Rogue's hand twitched as if she were fighting not to pull away. Remy slid his arm from behind his head and took her hand in both of his, sandwiching it between his palms. He didn't want to let go of her. Slowly he rubbed his palm in a circle against hers. The gentle friction sent shivers up his arm. Desire quickened his pulse and shortened his breath.

He could tell immediately that Rogue felt it, too. Her breath caught and her signature shifted, warming outward from her core. To Remy's great surprise, she tucked her hair behind her ear and leaned forward. Bracing her free hand on the bed next to his head, she bent down to kiss him.

The kiss was timid, but heated. Remy twined his fingers with Rogue's, needing to hold her in some way, but otherwise let her lead. One kiss led to a second and then more, and he was utterly delighted to realize she was experimenting. Even so, it took all of his self-control to remain still, responding only as she initiated.

She withdrew after a bit, and Remy reluctantly let her go. They were both panting. She returned to her original position seated beside him and tucked her hands in her lap. She seemed abashed, as if she'd been more forward than she intended and didn't quite know what to do about it.

Once he'd managed to catch his breath, Remy laced his fingers across his stomach, affecting nonchalance. "So, y' had somet'ing y' wanted t' tell me?" he asked casually.

Rogue laughed, the sound bright and nervous.

"Did ya know that ah'm now the envy of every available woman in the Clans?" she responded once her mirth subsided. Her heart rate, which was fairly high already, jumped. "Because _ah_ get ta bed Remy LeBeau."

That was by far the closest she'd ever come to using the word 'sex' in his presence. Remy hid his surprise behind a smug grin. "Do tell, chere."

She punched him lightly in the shoulder. "Don't let it go to ya head, now."

"Who, me?"

She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she seemed to sober and blew her breath out in a long sigh. "Yeah… so…" She twisted her hands in her lap. Her heat signature had taken on a crazed edge, colors spiking and collapsing too rapidly for him to follow. "Ah'd kinda like ta make that a reality."

Remy arched both brows sharply in surprise. A rather loud voice in his head began whooping with glee, but he knew better than to let it show. Much.

"I t'ink we can make dat happen," he said with a grin, and was rewarded by her laugh.

"Ah didn't think ah'd have much trouble convincin' ya." Her signature began to settle, as if getting the invitation out there had been a major accomplishment. Which, he reflected, it probably had been.

Her laughter died off, and an awkward silence enveloped them. Eventually, Remy cleared his throat.

"So, did y' have a time frame in mind…?"

Heat flared in her cheeks. "What's ya schedule look like foh the next week or so, sugah?" she asked a bit too brightly. Remy suspected she wasn't going to be able to stick with the conversation much longer. The mental image of them both breaking out dayplanners in an attempt to pencil in a date was a rather amusing one, though.

He wriggled his shoulders a little deeper into his pillow. "As it so happens, I'm free right now." He kept his tone light.

She snorted. "No, ya not. Ya supposed ta be in a council meetin' in exactly—" She turned to look toward the bedside table. "Thirty-two minutes."

Remy glanced involuntarily toward the clock whose number he couldn't read. "Is it dat late?" he asked in dismay.

"'Fraid so." She managed to sound sympathetic, though he heard a healthy dose of relief in there, too. It hurt in a dull sort of way, even though he knew her terror had its root in things well beyond his presence in her heart and life. But that wasn't something he could let Rogue see.

Groaning theatrically, he sat up. "An' dis was turnin' into such a nice morning, too." He flashed her one of his most charming smiles then swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood.

When he emerged from the closet, he found Rogue waiting for him in the middle of the room. She shifted her weight nervously from foot to foot, her hands clasped together in front of her.

Remy closed the distance between them and caught her around the waist. Given that she'd more or less propositioned him this morning, he wasn't going to worry quite so much about scaring her off. "What's up, cherie?"

She slipped effortlessly into his arms but then fussed with his tie as if needing something to occupy her hands. "About… earlier." She had begun to blush again. "Do ya think we could find an evenin' ta do somethin' nice?" She hitched her shoulders in a tiny shrug. "Ah know it ain't safe ta actually go out or anything…"

"Y' mean, like a date?" He liked the idea instantly. It was more than reasonable for her to want her first night to be marked as a special event.

She nodded, laying her hands flat against his chest. "Yeah. Ah'd kinda like ta have ya undivided attention, at least f' a little bit."

Remy put that together with her earlier comment about his schedule and came to the startling realization that they really hadn't had any time to spend together, just to spend time together. There were far more demands on his time than he had hours to give, and her schedule as Guildmistress wasn't much easier. Other than a few brief periods in the evenings before sleep claimed them or the rare morning like this one, he hadn't spent any time in her company that wasn't also devoted to some other purpose, if not several.

He raised a hand to stroke her cheek. "I t'ink dat sounds like an excellent idea. Let me see what I c'n do about takin' an evenin' off."

She nodded, seeming pleased. Remy bent down and kissed her lightly. "I'll see y' later."

"Good luck with the council." She gave his tie a last pat and stepped back.

Grimacing good-naturedly, he tore himself away from her and headed out.

#-#-#-#

"Are you seriously asking the Guild to accept this, Guildmaster?" Chess LaSalle stared across the table at Remy, his infrared signature a mix of frustration and worry.

Remy bit back a sigh. He extended his long legs under the council table, trying to stretch without being too obvious about it. His leg had been aching recently, and the best explanation Beast could offer him was that it was probably a reaction to the changing weather.

"I'm not _askin'_ de Guild t' accept anyt'ing," he told Chess firmly. "I'm tellin' y' dat dis is what's gon' happen. The X-Men are goin' after one of the sentinels final assembly plants an' dey need me t' get them in."

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were putting the good of the X-Men above the good of the Guild," Adrian said in the faintly smug tone Remy had come to loathe.

"We should all be grateful y' _do_ know better, den," Remy snapped in response. Around the table, the other councilors' signatures fluttered with muted signs of dismay, and Remy forced himself to rein in his temper.

He let his gaze roam the table. All of the council was present save Carson, who was still in Miami. "De X-Men have demonstrated dat they know how t' hurt OZT," he said. "An' because of de support we've given them, they've become de rallying point for de entire resistance movement." He paused to survey their reactions, debating once again how much to tell them. They very well might take the existence of Xavier's underground as a threat. Choosing his words carefully, he went on. "Now, some pieces on the super-powered mutant side o' t'ings are startin' t' fall into place. We have a really good chance t' deal Bastion a major blow wit' dis mission."

Chess braced his elbows on the arms of his wheelchair and steepled his fingers in front of his face. "You sound like you still consider yourself a member of the X-Men, Guildmaster," he said, a faint note of challenge in his voice.

Remy sucked in his breath as sudden understanding struck him. Here was the crux of the anger Chess nursed toward him, the root of his broken trust. For the ex-Guildmaster, Remy realized, the Guild was _everything_. He had devoted his entire life to New York's well being. The idea that Remy might maintain allegiance to the X-Men, to him, could only mean that his loyalty to the Guild was not absolute. Remy wasn't certain how to convince him otherwise, but he knew he had to try.

"I am an X-Man," Remy answered quietly, "an' will be 'til de day I die. Dat red X is marked on me as indelibly as dis." He touched the back of his neck, where his Guild mark formed an intricate circle of scars with the broader ring of his Master's mark around it. "The X-Men were formed f' the sole purpose o' makin' de world into a place where mutants can live their lives in peace, wit' all the same rights an' opportunities as anyone else. So they take it on themselves t' protect mutants from those dat would hurt dem-- OZT bein' only de latest an' most dangerous example-- an' also t' protect people _from_ mutants dat t'ink power gives them de right t' rule." He looked pointedly at Adrian, whose views on the subject weren't exactly a secret, then returned his attention to Chess. "They've been safeguarding de Guild's future-- even before they knew what it was-- at de cost of their own lives, if necessary." Jubilee's face rose in his mind. "So how, I ask, can y' possibly t'ink my loyalty t' dis Guild is in any way diminished because I call myself an X-Man?"

Silence enveloped the table. Remy watched the council members shifting signatures, hoping for some sign they understood… or were at least willing to accept.

"That may all be true, Guildmaster," Artur finally said from his place, "but it doesn't change the fact that this is an _extremely_ dangerous enterprise. What happens to our future if the X-Men-- yourself included-- get themselves killed doing this?"

"Den OZT wins," Remy answered flatly. He watched their heat signatures flare and could guess the shocked expressions on their faces. "Dis is what de X-Men do, gentlemen. They draw de line when no one else can, an' they hold it. If they break--" He shrugged. "Den it's over. De Guild will survive by goin' dark an' silent, but mutants won' ever have much of a future."

"And we should simply accept the risk based on your bleak prediction of the future?" Artur's voice carried a wealth of resentment buried beneath its calm, reasoned tone. "The Guild looks after its own. Why should we sacrifice our safety for the sake of outsiders?"

Remy fought his mounting frustration. The narrow viewpoint made some sense, particularly given the Guild's long history, but if he could just get them to look beyond the ends of their own noses to see the bigger picture…

"It's not a prediction," he finally told them. "It's a fact." He heard Artur draw a breath to speak and held up one hand to forestall him. "An' here y' gon' have t' simply accept dat some very strange t'ings happen around de X-Men."

He had their undivided attention now, their signatures shifting with curiosity and interest.

Remy laid both palms flat against the table's slick surface. "You've all met Bishop, correct?" He received a round of nods. "What y' don' know is dat Bishop is from de future-- 'bout eighty years, as best we can figure."

He wasn't entirely surprised when Adrian burst out laughing. "The _future_! Please, Guildmaster, don't insult our intelligence."

Remy did not react except to arch one eyebrow. Around the table, the other councilors' responses bounced from incredulity to disbelief and back. Their heads swiveled between himself and Adrian as they tried to decide who to believe.

"De X-Men were skeptical, too," Remy said once the silence had stretched long enough, "but don' forget de team has several high-level telepaths t' verify these kinds o' t'ings." He let them absorb that for a moment, then went on. "Dat big 'M' tattooed on his face ain't there as a fashion statement. It's there because, in his time, mutant children are branded wit' dat mark so everyone will know what they are. Most of his world is a wasteland from decades o' war between mutants and humans." Remy pointed to an imaginary spot on the table in front of him. "A war dat has its root right here, right now, wit' us and OZT."

He leaned back in his chair. "I know y' t'ink I'm too aggressive-- dat I take terrible risks wit' my own life an' those of my Guild. An' y' right. Under any other circumstances I'd have told Cyclops he's out o' his mind about dis mission. But, knowing what we do about de future, if this is our one an' only chance t' stop de insanity before it really starts, there's really no other choice but t' push the risks jus' as far as we can, in de hopes it'll be enough." And pray that it wasn't the reckless risk-taking that led to Bishop's future, a dark little voice murmured in the back of his mind.

Tom O'Shane sat forward, running both hands through his thick red hair. "What you're talking about, Guildmaster… it's almost too fantastic to believe. The fate of the world comes down to _us_? We're thieves."

"Us and a bunch of powerless mutant renegades." Adrian's voice was sharp. "It's ludicrous to think we're going to get anything for our troubles except dead. And I, for one, would prefer to avoid that."

Chess slowly lowered his hands, his heat signature murky. "We are honor-bound to consider the needs of the Guild above all else, and though I can see how this plan of the X-Men's could, indeed, result in great benefit for the Guild, it could also bring us disaster. I _cannot_ in good conscience support something that has the potential to bring so much harm to the people I swore I would protect."

Remy suppressed a resigned sigh.

Tom shook his head. "I disagree, Master LaSalle. The danger is so great, how can we afford _not_ to take this risk?"

To Remy's surprise both Ted Bales and Terrence Cooper were nodding in agreement.

Terrence noticed his gaze and shrugged. "It'll be a lot worse for the clans than the Guild if what you're saying is true, Guildmaster."

Remy nodded and looked over at Artur. "I know y' angry wit' me for puttin' us on dis course, but now do y' understand why?" he asked the other man.

He shook his head, a sharp jerk that told Remy as much about his state of mind as the rapid flickering of his heat signature. "I'm not sure it's possible to understand, Guildmaster. This is—" he paused, seeming to gather himself. "This is very nearly suicide."

Remy wished he could meet the other man's gaze. "I know it looks dat way, but it isn't."

"How can you be so sure?"

Sighing, Remy brushed an imaginary piece of lint from his sleeve and then returned his attention to the thief. "Two years ago, we went t' Avalon t' face down Magneto." He saw the ripple of alarm his words generated. "If there was ever a suicide mission, dat was it. Takin' him on in his own space station—an Omega mutant wit' de power t' control de very iron in y' blood, an' a whole store o' nuclear missiles besides." He gave them a caustic smile. "But dat's what de X-Men do, so we went. An' we stopped him."

"_Magneto_." It was little more than a whisper from one of the men around the table, and spoke loudly of the awe and terror that name still conjured.

Remy made his tone light, flip. "Yeah, he's a scary guy. An' he don' care much f' me, dat's f' sure. I figured my chances of comin' back from Avalon were slim."

"Why is that, Guildmaster?" Artur asked after a moment, his voice full of reluctant curiosity.

Remy kept his face still. "Oh, he an' Rogue were an item back when," he said casually. "Mags figured dat gave him de right t' disapprove of any man she chose t' see." Remy watched the councilors' signatures swirl kaleidoscopically and he knew he had them. Even Adrian was impressed, and hating it no doubt. But there was something about the sheer impossibility of the things the X-Men routinely did that had the power to ignite people's imaginations.

A very different kind of silence filled the room, and for the first time since his relationship with Rogue had become public, Remy didn't feel the wordless sense of betrayal that had characterized his interactions with the council since then.

"Then you are committed to this course, Guildmaster?" Chess asked after a bit.

Remy nodded solemnly. "I am."

Chess raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Then we are obliged to commit to it as well."

Around the table, the other councilors nodded their agreement. All except Adrian, who leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, but did not voice a protest.

#-#-#-#

Bobby studied the building plans laid out on the Guildmaster's desk while he waited for Remy. Opposite him, Scott glanced up from his own perusal of a different set of documents. His gaze flicked across Bobby's clothing-- the tight-fitting suit with its multitude of pockets and custom-designed reinforcement that worked with the climbing harness that was a normal part of a thief's gear-- and Bobby could see him debating with himself.

Finally, Scott straightened. He crossed his arms and regarded Bobby steadily. "Can I ask you something?"

Trying to hide his sudden wariness, Bobby nodded. "Sure."

"What was it about becoming a thief that was so different from being an X-Man?"

Bobby blinked, surprised by the odd edge to his voice. He heard disappointment, and something else. Something he had a hard time putting his finger on. It was almost a sense of… professional jealousy?

Bobby stifled a snort at the very idea, but forced himself to consider the question objectively. He'd trained with the X-Men for years and always lagged behind, wracked by self-doubt and fear. Remy had changed that, and he suspected Scott would be utterly appalled by some of the details the Cajun's idea of training entailed.

But maybe that was why one had worked and the other hadn't.

Bobby ran a hand through his hair, which, at his wife's insistence, was now significantly shorter than it had been, though he would never again wear it as short as he had before joining the Guild. "The difference, I think, is that the X-Men always work as a team-- watch each other's backs, that kind of thing."

Scott's brow dipped. "That's a problem?"

"It was for me." He shrugged. "I knew somebody else would always be there if I screwed up. Remy didn't let me get away with that. He made me succeed or fail on my own abilities, my own choices." Bobby paused then forced himself to go on. "He never made any effort to protect me from the consequences of failing, either." That, maybe, was the one thing he could honestly hold against Scott and the others—even the Professor. And their attempts to shield him had only allowed him to continue hiding from himself and his fears.

Scott gave him a troubled look. "That sounds… harsh."

Bobby shrugged. "The world's a pretty harsh place."

He watched Scott chew on his words, but Bobby lost the chance to hear whatever he might have said in response as the door to the Guildmaster's suite opened and Remy emerged. He was dressed like Bobby, and had a knapsack of tools slung over one shoulder.

Remy nodded to Scott in greeting then turned to Bobby. "Y' ready?"

Bobby glanced down at the drawings scattered across the desk. "Ready as I'm going to get, anyway."

That earned him a sharp look. "Y' got dose memorized or not?"

Bobby couldn't help but give Scott an amused glance. _See?_ "Yes, Guildmaster," he answered dutifully.

Scott cleared his throat. "Where are you going, anyway?"

Bobby bent down to retrieve his own tools, which he'd set on the ground by his feet. "The Maze-- It's the Guild's equivalent of the Danger Room." Bobby grinned. "It's all Earth technology, of course, but it's still pretty cool." He'd never actually had the chance to use it since the Maze was primarily reserved for the higher-level thieves to use to plan the most complex and dangerous jobs.

"We can use it t' recreate de physical path Bobby an' I are gon' have to take t' neutralize the sentinels plant security. Gives us a chance t' practice an' work out de kinks in de plan," Remy said.

Bobby managed to keep his expression neutral. He and Remy would be going into the plant hours ahead of the rest of the X-Men and if things went sideways for them, it was unlikely a rescue of any sort would be possible. Just the physical demands of making their way through the various vents, crawlspaces and substructures that would give them access to the areas they needed was daunting—yet another reason why they would be spending a lot of time in the Maze over the next few weeks.

Scott accepted the explanation without visible reaction. "Have you had a chance to look at getting into the Baxter building?" he asked Remy.

Remy shook his head. "No, not yet."

"Okay." Scott reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose as if trying to push back a headache. "Reed says he thinks he can have something for us in a week to ten days. Are you going to be able to come up with something by then?"

Remy gave Scott a flat stare and Bobby could read the exhaustion lurking in the depths of his red eyes, probably better than the X-Men's leader. But, unfortunately, involving Guild thieves would only expose what kind of support the X-Men had, and none of them wanted to risk that when they had no idea how negative the reaction might be.

Finally, Remy shrugged. "Gon' have to, I guess." He adjusted the bag of tools on his shoulder and looked at Bobby. "Let's go."

Together he and Bobby set off through the winding tunnels of the Guild complex.

"So how's married life treating you?" Bobby asked as they walked. He tried to make the question casual, though he didn't think Remy was fooled. But if anyone understood just how complicated the situation was, it was him.

"Can't complain," Remy answered after a moment.

Bobby rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. The man was a master of the non-committal answer. "Sorry, try again," he said dryly. "This is me, remember?"

Remy shot him a dirty look. But then he relented, and his expression softened. "We're workin' it out."

Bobby nodded, relieved. Rogue seemed happy—happier than he'd ever seen her, in fact, but a little part of him had been afraid it was just an act for the Guild.

"Trouble in paradise, Guildmaster?" a smooth voice inquired from behind them.

Bobby started and swallowed a curse. Adrian had come up behind them so silently that the young thief hadn't had the slightest inkling he was there.

Remy stopped and turned. If Adrian had startled him, he hid it well. He gave Adrian a pleasant smile. "Surprisingly little, actually."

Adrian's expression sharpened at the candid admission. "You and Rogue don't get along, normally?"

Remy barked a laugh, drawing the attention of those nearby. No one stopped to watch openly, but Bobby knew how much interest there was whenever Remy and Adrian clashed.

Remy shook his head, still chuckling. "Fight like junkyard dogs most o' de time. She's a stubborn, willful woman, Rogue is."

Adrian's faintly superior air faltered for an instant. "So I'd noticed." He quickly buried the lapse under a fresh smile, this one thin and cold. He lowered his voice. "But in the end, she still begged for mercy."

Bobby's blood seemed to freeze inside him. He saw Remy tense, and for an instant thought he was going to attack Adrian. But other than that little flicker, Remy didn't move.

"I don' believe you," Remy finally said in a mild voice that was all the more chilling for its lack of emotion. "I know my wife, an' y' didn't come anywhere close t' breakin' her spirit." Unlike Adrian, he used a normal, conversational volume and from the expressions Bobby saw reflected around them, no one had any illusions about the substance of the conversation.

Adrian didn't look very pleased at the attention they were receiving. "Ask her, then, if you doubt me."

Remy's eyes narrowed a fraction before the expression disappeared completely, replaced by a knowing smile. He cocked his head to the side. "Y' know, you brought all dis on y'self."

The other man smiled, but it was patently false. "How so?"

Remy's smug expression fell away, leaving something hard in its wake. "De relationship was _over_, Adrian. An' nothin' short of what you did could have put it back together again."

Adrian's smile remained fixed in place, but Bobby could see the light of fury in his eyes. "Yes, well, I'm glad I could be of service." He backed up a step, began to turn away.

"Adrian."

The other man froze then slowly turned back toward Remy. "Guildmaster?"

"How is Carson doin' in Miami?"

Adrian blinked at the sudden change of topic, but made the switch without further reaction. "He has one item still to get to fulfill the contract. He said it's turned out to be more difficult than he expected."

"Can he do it?" Remy asked. Bobby didn't know the specifics, though rumor had the thief in Miami to steal something of great importance from a Colombian drug lord.

Adrian nodded, the motion stiff. "He says he can."

"Den tell him t' get his job done, fast, an' get home. De cartel's already sniffin' down his trail, an' I don't know how much longer de Kingpin is gon' be willing t' put them off."

Adrian nodded again. "I'll let him know." He turned on his heel and strode away, anger snapping from his heels.

Remy watched him go for a second, then he and Bobby continued on their way. Remy didn't speak again until they'd reached the Maze. Bobby stopped just inside the doorway and stared upward, trying to take it all in. The Guild's training room inhabited a massive natural cavern nearly twice the size of the Danger Room. It was filled, top to bottom, with a bewildering tangle of platforms, tubes and barriers.

It took a while, but eventually Bobby began to pick out a sense of order from the mess, and was able to match what he saw with the blueprints he'd spent so many hours staring at recently.

"Ugh. This is _not_ going to be easy."

Beside him, Remy chucked. "Jus' like old times, neh?"

Bobby had to smile at the memories that comment evoked. If it weren't for how horribly dangerous this mission was, he would have been excited to have the chance to be out working with Remy again. Sometimes he missed his apprentice days. Life had gotten awfully complicated since then.

Once they'd donned climbing harnesses and done a final check on all the equipment they were taking with them, Remy took the lead, shimmying up into the lowest levels of the Maze with the effortless ease of an acrobat. Bobby sighed and followed him.

At one point more than an hour later, they were hanging upside down next to a square aluminum shaft as they cut a hole to allow them access to the interior, a job that was made infinitely more difficult because of the array of lasers that filled the inside of the shaft.

"Bobby?" Remy asked, and the tone of his voice set Bobby's internal warning bells to ringing.

"Yeah, boss?" He kept his attention on where he was cutting, however, rather than look toward his friend.

"I need y' to do some'ting for me."

Bobby finished the final cut and pulled the saw back as Remy carefully moved the aluminum plate out of the way with a pair of suction-cup handles. "What's that?"

Remy didn't answer immediately. Bobby pulled a tube of specially-formulated super glue out of one of his pockets and squeezed a liberal amount onto the back of the aluminum plate Remy held. Then, twisting his body into a thoroughly unnatural position, Remy pressed the plate against the side of the side of the shaft above where they'd cut their entrance. When he'd held it there long enough for the glue to set, he released the suction handles and tucked them back into his bag.

"I need y' to keep an eye on Adrian for me," Remy said. "Any time he sets foot outside de complex, I need t' know where he goes an' who he sees."

Bobby digested that, his sense of alarm increasing. "What do you think he's planning?"

"Don' know dat he's planning anyt'ing." Remy's gaze was keen. "But I'd be a fool t' miss what kind of opportunity dis mission is f' him."

Bobby sucked in his breath at the implication. If something happened to the X-Men while they were trying to break into the Sentinels factory, Adrian might very well be able to take control of the Guild.

Bobby considered his options then nodded. "Okay, I can do that. I can't watch him 24/7 though. I'll have to enlist some help."

Remy looked a little reluctant, but nodded. "Jus' make sure y' careful."


	37. Chapter 37

Chapter 37

Trish Tilby wasn't sure what she had expected of a woman who had been surgically altered into the pre-form of a prime sentinel. But a bright, bubbling sixteen-year-old wasn't anywhere close.

Warren Worthington made the introductions personally, on a small sound stage inside the Worthington Industries building that was obviously built for use by the television media. Trish took in the details by habit— a pair of large overstuffed chairs in a muted neutral color faced each other across a small coffee table, and the area was framed by a tasteful rug in colors that matched the WI logo splashed across the backdrop. Eddie again manned the camera, while the rest of Trish's crew worked the sound and recording equipment.

Jubilee, as she insisted she be called, was a slender Asian-American girl. She had been pretty once, but now her skin was unnaturally pale, with dark hollows beneath her eyes and cheekbones. Her hair was little more than a dark shadow of stubble on her scalp, and over it she wore a white bandana stamped with the X-Men's red-X-in-a-circle motif.

Jubilee noticed the direction of her gaze and raised a hand to her head. "Wolverine got this for me yesterday," she said, fingering the edge of the bandana, "at some little sidewalk vendor's stall. Can you believe they're selling stuff with the X-Men's symbol on it? He got me a t-shirt too. It's so cool."

Trish decided that comment was as good a place to start as any. She and Jubilee sat in the plush chairs, and she knew from Eddie's offstage hand motions that they were recording, so she decided to go ahead and jump in.

"The X-Men have become heroes to everyone who hates OZT and wants to see their illegal bid for power in this country ended." Trish turned to face the camera. "Hello, America. Today I'm here inside the Worthington Industries building in Manhattan with Jubilation Lee, a former member of the X-Men and, more recently, a prisoner of Operation: Zero Tolerance."

Jubilee glanced at the camera with a nervous frown then turned back toward Trish. Trish gave her a friendly smile. "Thank you for agreeing to be interviewed, Jubilee."

The girl shrugged. "Anything I can do to help, I guess." She sat Indian-style in the oversized chair, looking small and vulnerable.

She was, Trish decided, absolutely perfect. That OZT had gone and turned _this_ into a prime sentinel… no one could be unaffected.

"What was it like to be an X-Man?"

Jubilee straightened, as if the mere mention of the X-Men breathed life into her. A smile bloomed on her face. "It was so wild. We were always off on one crazy mission or another, fighting the bad guys… and usually winning."

Trish couldn't help but smile in response. "But you left a couple of years ago, correct? To go to a conventional school with others your own age."

Jubilee rolled her eyes. "If you can call a hoighty-toighty private academy full of mutant teenagers 'conventional', sure."

"Well, more conventional, anyway," Trish qualified.

Jubilee grinned.

Trish let her expression turn solemn. "Did you want to leave the X-Men?"

As expected, the girl's expression fell, though Trish didn't sense any anger from her. Only sadness. Jubilee shook her head. "No. They kinda made me go." She met Trish's gaze. "I think they were afraid they were corrupting me or something."

Trish raised a curious eyebrow. "Were they?" Hank had never said much about the young girl's presence with the X-Men, except to express concern that she was being forced to grow up too fast.

Jubilee laughed brightly. "Oh, yeah. Not really their fault, though, y'know?" She cocked her head. "Well, Wolverine and Gambit did teach me how to play poker, and Wolvie let me try a sip of his beer once." She made a face. "That stuff is _nasty_. Oh, and Phoenix gave me my first sex talk—you know, the bird and the bees stuff—and Psylocke filled in all the juicy details later." She widened her eyes theatrically. "The woman wears a thong into combat—she knows some _really_ juicy details."

Trish had to laugh at the thought of what the society page would be printing about Betsy Braddock after the interview aired. "It sounds like it was an interesting place to grow up."

Jubilee winked. "You betcha, and that's before you throw in the bug-eyed monsters and supervillains and stuff."

Trish spent a moment shuffling her cue cards as she tried to regain her composure. This girl was a firecracker, no doubt about it, and she was going to run away with the interview if Trish wasn't careful.

Clearing her throat, Trish steered the conversation toward a more difficult topic. "Tell me about the day the prime sentinels attacked your school."

Mention of the sentinels sapped the light from Jubilee's eyes. "They just appeared out of nowhere and started smashing their way into the building. Ms. Frost screamed at us to run." She stared off into the distance as if reliving the events she described. "But one of them tackled me. I remember hearing something break as we hit the ground… I think it was my arm." Absently, she fingered her forearm. "I don't remember anything after that." She looked up abruptly, her eyes fierce.

Trish tried to make her voice gentle. "What's the next thing you do remember?"

Jubilee jerked and her face went a deathly shade of white. "I—I woke up in a prison cell, strapped down on a big, cold metal table. Bastion was there."

"In person?" Trish stared at the girl in surprise. Other than a couple of press conferences early on, Bastion had not made any public appearances.

Expression haunted, Jubilee nodded. "Yeah." She swallowed convulsively. "He wanted to know about the X-Men. He wanted--" She grabbed the arms of her chair, white-knuckled. "Security codes, passwords. Everything I remembered about the alarm systems. They wouldn't stop. They wouldn't—" She broke off, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

Trish kept her face still. "They tortured you?" she asked quietly.

Jubilee nodded without meeting her eyes. "I betrayed my friends."

"And Bastion was there, in the room with you?" Trish didn't really want to force this girl to relive the moment any more than necessary, but she had to make absolutely certain Bastion couldn't claim ignorance.

Jubilee swiped the back of her hand across her eyes. She looked up at Trish, her expression firming. "He was there. He gave instructions to the others." She took a shuddering breath and straightened her shoulders. "Sometimes he asked the questions."

Trish simply nodded at the confirmation and went on. "We know the X-Men survived," she said, primarily for the audience's benefit. "To my knowledge, Operation: Zero Tolerance hasn't managed to capture or kill any member of the team."

A light of defiance came into Jubilee's eyes. "Wolverine told me they got out ahead of OZT's assassins."

"And now they're leading the fight to break Bastion's hold on this country, and the world. Do _you_ know how they're managing to fight back so effectively?"

As Trish had hoped, Jubilee gave her one of the scathing looks teenagers reserved for not-so-bright adults. "Lady, they're the X-Men."

Trish grinned and glanced into the camera. "I suppose no more explanation is needed." She let the moment linger before turning once again to a difficult subject.

"What happened to you after OZT attacked the X-Men's base of operations?" she asked Jubilee.

Jubilee's face seemed to close up on itself. She reached up and slowly pulled the bandana from her head. Beneath the dark shadow of stubble, long lines of scar tissue were clearly visible. The girl tipped her head forward, showing the extent of the scarring to both Trish and the camera. Then, she pulled up the sleeves of her shirt, exposing the long, thin scars that ran up the insides and along the backs of her arms. Finally, she unfolded her legs and scooted to the edge of her chair. Standing, she turned her back and lifted her shirt to show Trish the scars that circled her abdomen.

"They turned me into a prime sentinel," she said as she sat back down.

Trish hardly needed to feign shock at the statement. Even though she knew it, the concept continued to alternately anger and horrify her. "Your doctor has provided me with copies of your x-rays and brain scans, which will be available along with this interview, but I'd like to hear from you what, exactly, that means."

Jubilee held her kerchief in both hands and toyed with the knot as she spoke. "I'm the pre-transformation version." She glanced up at Trish. "That just means I'm still a person inside. See, when someone like me gets near a mutant and they transform into the full-blown sentinel, their brain gets destroyed to make room for the neural network that controls the prime."

"So every prime sentinel out there—" Trish waved toward the world outside their sound stage, "used to be a human being. A person."

Jubilee nodded. "Just like me."

#-#-#-#

"You did great," Trish told Jubilee as they wrapped up the interview. People milled around them, a combination of Worthington's people and her own, as they dismantled or moved the overhead microphones and turned off the bright stage lighting.

Trish extended her hand, which the girl shook a bit tentatively. "Thanks," Jubilee said. Her gaze strayed past the journalist, lighting with a wide, genuine smile. With hardly a glance at Trish, she jumped out of her chair and ran across the room to throw her arms around Bobby Drake's neck.

Trish rose to her feet and drifted that direction, not wanting to interrupt what looked like a very happy reunion. Bobby ran a hand across Jubilee's scalp like an older brother might tousle his sister's hair. As expected, Jubilee ducked, slapping at his hand in good-natured outrage while simultaneously babbling at him in the breathless warp-speed way of teenage girls everywhere.

Trish nodded to Bobby in greeting as she approached.

"Hi, Trish," he returned, his expression a shade less reserved than the last time they'd met, and Trish wondered if her willingness to work with the X-Men now might have, in some way, begun to balance the scales in his mind regarding her breaking of the Legacy Virus story.

Trish's curiosity got the better of her. "So do the X-Men just waltz in and out of the Worthington building any old time they want?" she asked over Jubilee's steady stream of prattle. "Isn't that dangerous?"

Bobby gave her an annoyed look. "I'm helping with the building security."

Trish raised an eyebrow. Robert Drake and 'building security' weren't concepts she would have put together in the same sentence, ever. "Doing what, exactly?"

His expression grew wary, as if he realized he'd piqued her curiosity. "Never mind."

Jubilee fell abruptly silent, looking miffed. "You guys want me to leave so you don't have to actively ignore me?"

Bobby immediately shook his head. His expression lightened as he glanced down at Jubilee. "Actually, I was looking for you, squirt. I need your help with something."

Her face immediately brightened. "Really? Cool."

Bobby threw a companionable arm across the girl's shoulders and began to turn her away. Trish bit her tongue, torn.

"Bobby, wait," she finally said. There was one thing she needed to know.

He glanced back at her.

"How is Hank?"

Bobby gave her a piercing look, as if someone much older and wiser lived behind his boyish face and sky-blue eyes. Trish found herself flushing beneath his gaze.

"He's fine," the young X-Man finally answered. "Busy. He's frustrated by the loss of his lab, of course, but I think he's enjoying the chance to just practice medicine for a while."

Trish's heart felt a little lighter as she watched Bobby and Jubilee walk away, though she had to wonder what Bobby's enigmatic statement might refer to. Who, besides the X-Men, would Hank be practicing medicine for?

#-#-#-#

Adrian Tyre spied the man he was looking for seated at one of the tables outside a small, upscale sidewalk café, reading a copy of the Wall Street Journal. He was a nondescript man dressed in a medium-quality business suit. Adrian had been told his contact would be wearing a red tie and drinking hot tea, which the man was.

After placing his order at the counter, Adrian went outside. The café was busy, all of its tables currently occupied.

Adrian paused beside the man's table. "Excuse me, may I take this seat?" he asked, waving toward the chair across the small table. Had the café been less busy, the question might have drawn notice, been remembered. Adrian was cautiously pleased. The man wasn't a total amateur, at least.

The man glanced up from his paper, nodded disinterestedly and went back to reading. Adrian was thoroughly amused to see the X-Men's red symbol pinned to the man's lapel. It was a bold bit of irony, which he appreciated.

"Thanks." Adrian settled into the chair, observing his surroundings with casual interest. Given that the man he was meeting was supposed to be an agent for OZT, he didn't expect to be in danger from sentinels, but he kept an eye out anyway. As well as for anyone else that might look out of place. If LeBeau had managed to put a tail on him, his life could get very difficult.

He watched the people moving up and down the street, intent on their own purposes. None showed particular interest in him or the café, and no one lingered. The street was one-way, barely a lane and a half wide. Vehicles jostled for position as they crept along.

Across the street, the sidewalk opened into a small landscaped area surrounded by benches. A trio of violinists in black pants and white shirts did a credible rendition of Handel's Water Music as people stopped to watch. A few snapped pictures, and Adrian gave those special attention, but saw nothing suspicious. An elderly Japanese couple seemed intent on filling an entire roll of film with the performers, but they moved on before very long. A frail-looking girl with a bandana over her bare scalp also stopped to take pictures. She was obviously on a short excursion from one of the local hospitals, a stern-faced nurse in tow. After a while, the girl went to sit down on one of the benches to rest. She continued to sight through the camera, often turning to point out things to her chaperone who looked on in ill-concealed boredom.

A pretty co-ed came by with Adrian's coffee and croissant and then was gone again with a flip of her chestnut ponytail.

"What kind of tea are you drinking?" Adrian asked his tablemate, as he'd been instructed.

The man looked up from his paper again. "Earl Grey."

It was the answer Adrian had been told to expect, and his gut tightened a notch. He gave no indication, however, as he stirred cream into his coffee. "I'm partial to Assam, myself."

The man's eyebrows flickered as Adrian gave the countersign, and the thief's opinion of him dropped a notch. Not a true professional, for certain. Probably some mid-level operative—good enough for blind drops and first contact meetings, but not one of the government's best.

The man went back to his paper. "You have information to give?" he said without looking up.

Adrian sipped his coffee. "Yes."

The man didn't say anything further, but Adrian could feel the expectancy that emanated from him. He bit back a snort of amusement. This man and his superiors had no idea what they'd just stumbled on. "But not here, and not now." Adrian broke off a corner of his croissant and was reasonably pleased by how the pastry flaked apart. Only the French really knew how to do pastries, but by New York standards, this wasn't too bad.

The man turned the page of his newspaper. "Why should I believe you have anything to offer at all?"

Adrian paused, struck, suddenly, by the finality of what he was doing. _LeBeau is going to destroy the Guild with his stupid heroics_, he reminded himself, _and get us all killed_. It wasn't even about money anymore, or even power. He took a deep breath.

"The next time we meet, I'll give you access to the restricted levels of the Worthington Industries building. That should be sufficient to demonstrate how good my information is."

The man's fingers tightened on his newspaper, and his eyebrows once again gave away his reaction.

Adrian stood. "I'll call you in a couple of days with instructions." He didn't wait for a response as he turned away.

#-#-#-#

Bobby kept one hand near the automatic pistol holstered at the base of his spine and his eyes peeled as he walked along beside Logan. Going above ground always made his skin crawl. And this was a rough section of the city—a narrow corridor trapped between gang territory and the blue collar, ethnically diverse neighborhoods dominated by the Kingpin's organization. The smell of roasting garlic hung thick in the air, competing with the tang of hot peppers and the less pleasant scents of stale beer, urine and rotting garbage. Aging, graceless brick apartment buildings vied for space with small shops and restaurants, many of which had blackened or broken windows. Cars lined the street, most as old as Bobby.

On the far street corner, a pimp yelled at one of his girls, punctuating the long stream of profanity with slaps. The woman shrieked her protest, vainly trying to cover her face with her hands.

Bobby glanced questioningly at Logan, who gave him a hooded stare and shrugged. "Your call, kid."

Bobby watched the scene unfold for a moment longer then shook his head. Had they had their powers he wouldn't have hesitated to interfere, but they couldn't afford to draw too much attention to themselves with the threat of OZT always looming. Particularly when it didn't look like the pimp intended to do any serious damage.

They continued on, and Bobby found himself on the receiving end of a sharp, appraising stare from the man beside him.

"What?" he asked after a minute.

Logan looked away, casually surveying the street. "Cajun's a remarkable judge o' character."

Bobby resisted the urge to shake his head. "Why, because I'm not the loser everybody thought?"

Logan grinned. "Yup." He inclined his head in Bobby's direction and his expression grew solemn. "I misjudged you, kid. Never gave ya much of a chance ta prove yerself."

"It wasn't your responsibility." Bobby accepted the apology with what he hoped was a reasonable amount of aplomb.

"Wasn't Gambit's, either." Logan gave him another of those appraising looks. "But he was willin' t' go out of his way because he saw somethin' in you the rest of us missed." Logan angled between two parked cars.

With a quick glance to check for oncoming traffic, Bobby followed him across the street toward the windowless face of a strip club.

They went inside. As expected, the interior was cramped and dim, the air heavy with smoke. A few tired-looking women in a tacky array of high-heels, tassels and thongs gyrated on stage for the benefit of a thin crowd. Bobby looked the room over without expression, but let his gaze linger on the girls since that would attract less attention than ignoring them. He wondered if Logan had chosen the location specifically to see how he would react to it. If so, he was going to be disappointed.

They took a booth toward the back of the room with a good view of the stage, as well as direct line of sight to the front door. Bobby ordered a beer when the waitress came around, then settled in to wait for Logan's contact to show.

Logan worried at the loose edge of the label on his beer bottle. "Jubilee told me you had her following someone yesterday. Taking pictures." His voice was gruff.

Bobby looked up, trying to gauge the level of danger implicit in his tone. He saw nothing immediately threatening, though that was no guarantee with Wolverine. "Yeah," he finally agreed. "I needed someone who for sure wouldn't get made."

"Who was she following?"

"Adrian."

Logan straightened abruptly in his seat. "_She_ took the pictures of this guy you need ID'd?"

Bobby nodded.

Logan glowered at him, but eventually he looked away and took a swig of his beer. "I ain't sure I like you puttin' her in harm's way." He returned his gaze to Bobby. "Or should I be takin' this up with Gambit instead?"

Bobby trailed a finger through the condensation left on the table by his drink. "My call," he told Logan. He met the other's gaze calmly. "She's been hurt by OZT more than any of us. She needs to be able to do something to fight back, and this was pretty low-risk."

Logan accepted that with a shrug and a vague, conciliatory gesture. "Can't argue that."

The front door swung open and a man shuffled in. Bobby pegged him for his early forties, though time hadn't treated him well. He was tall and scarecrow-thin, with long, stringy blond hair and a leather coat that had seen better days. Logan raised a hand, waving him over.

The man moved toward their table, his demeanor casual, but his eyes scanned every inch of the room with carefully veiled intensity. Bobby took note of a couple of bulges that most likely hid an assortment of weapons.

Once he reached them, the man looked both Bobby and Logan over before nodding to Logan in greeting. "Who's the cub scout?" He jerked his chin in Bobby's direction.

Bobby didn't let his annoyance at the reference show as Logan grinned. "He's Guild," Logan said.

The man's expression cleared, turning distinctly professional. He slid into the booth beside Logan and acknowledged Bobby with a nod.

"You're looking for a name, correct?" The man spoke with a cultured precision at odds with his rough appearance.

Bobby nodded. "Name and affiliation."

"Let's see the money."

Keeping his movements slow, Bobby reached inside his jacket and withdrew the photo of Adrian and the unidentified man he'd been talking to, as well as an envelope filled with crisp hundred dollar bills. He laid both on the table and slid them toward Logan's contact.

The man picked up the envelope first, checked its contents then laid it back down beside the photo. With two fingers he drew the photo closer, studying it.

He raised an eyebrow before glancing up at Bobby. "His name's Alan Garbo--like the actress. He's been the undersecretary of something-or-other at American embassies in about a half-dozen countries."

Logan's gaze narrowed. "CIA?"

The man nodded. "He was. Don't know about now. He was always mid-level. Never good enough to make station chief." He shrugged. "I think he left the company a few years back." He picked up the envelope of money and slipped it inside his coat.

Bobby leaned back in his seat. "If you had to guess, where do you think he might have ended up?"

The man shrugged. "OZT maybe. They've been skimming off the government pond." He levered himself to his feet. "Always a pleasure doing business with you, Logan." He walked away without another word.

Bobby gave Logan a troubled look. "How good is his guess?"

Logan shrugged. "He knows all the players, so it ought ta be pretty good. Ya gonna take this ta Gambit?"

Bobby nodded. "Going to have to, but I'd like to try to confirm who this Garbo is with, first. Accusing a council member of selling out to OZT is no small thing." He drained the last of his beer. "Remy can't touch this unless the information's solid—a lot more solid than one guy's hunch."


	38. Chapter 38

Chapter 38

Adrian watched LeBeau for nearly two days before he found the opportunity he needed.

The Guildmaster had just returned from Worthington Industries, so he had the item Adrian sought on his person. Adrian even knew where he carried it—he'd managed to catch a glimpse of LeBeau pocketing the slim piece of plastic early that morning as he emerged from his office, still shrugging into the ratty old duster he seemed to adore.

Now, LeBeau stood near the middle of the monstrous main cavern, his forward progress halted by a varied group of guildmembers who had converged on him almost as soon as he had appeared. Rather than looking irritated, however, he chatted amiably with the people surrounding him. He seemed to be in a remarkably good mood.

That suited Adrian. People tended to let their guards down when they were happy. Unfortunately, LeBeau wasn't most people, or even most thieves. Underestimating him could easily be fatal. So Adrian continued to watch, hoping for a serendipitous event that would provide the distraction he needed.

As if his thoughts had conjured her, Rogue appeared at the edge of the crowd. Adrian grinned to himself. _Bingo._

Dressed in jeans and tennis shoes, with her mass of red hair tumbling loose, Rogue looked far too young for her position. She slipped through the crowd around LeBeau with a string of greetings and cheerful apologies for those she passed.

Adrian shook his head. He didn't know how she did it. The shrewd, dangerous woman he'd now had a couple of occasions to meet was completely hidden behind the charming face she presented to the Guild. Her acting was superb, he had to admit. Flawless, even.

He drifted a few steps in the Guildmaster's direction, careful not to draw attention to himself. Rogue had reached her husband. She laid her hands on his shoulders as his arms encircled her waist, rising up onto her tiptoes to kiss him demurely on the lips. And even though Adrian knew for a fact that the relationship between them was something close to three years old, she still managed to give the impression of a young, inexperienced woman swept up in the heady throes of her first love affair.

Adrian wondered if LeBeau had any idea how thoroughly Rogue had snared him with her perpetual innocence act. Probably not. Anyone with eyes could see that the Guildmaster was completely, utterly, _stupid_ in love with her.

He snorted sourly. And the rest of the Guild wasn't far behind. She had them all enchanted. But, if things played out the way he hoped, he wouldn't have to worry long about how much of a threat Rogue might turn out to be. She would be a moot point and LeBeau nothing but a minor footnote in Guild history.

Adrian felt a small thrill at the thought and counseled himself to patience. He couldn't afford to get distracted. Now wasn't the time to be thinking of the future that would open up once LeBeau was out of the picture. He had a pinch to make first. A difficult, risky pinch.

Adrian narrowed his focus until nothing existed for him outside the space that separated him from his mark. He let the crowded cavern work to his advantage, turning him into just another body, unnoticed, unremarkable as he angled toward LeBeau. They would come into contact right about _there_, he estimated, gauging the remaining distance. Adrenaline slid through his veins in a cool rush.

LeBeau bent his head to hear something Rogue said, her voice barely rising above the level of the surrounding din.

Adrian took another couple of steps in their direction. His approach vector was beyond the edge of LeBeau's peripheral vision, but that left him well within Rogue's visual range. She, however, appeared to have eyes only for her husband.

Two more steps brought him close enough to hear her words.

"Ah'm really lookin' forward ta tonight." She looked up into LeBeau's face, her expression both shy and coy.

He grinned back, seeming every bit as wrapped up in her as she was in him. "I promised y' somet'ing resemblin' a real date."

Three steps to go. Adrian forced his breathing to remain even, his expression bland. Nothing to draw attention.

"Should ah dress up?" Rogue asked.

Two steps. From the way LeBeau's expression immediately turned smoky, one would have thought she'd asked a far less innocuous question, Adrian thought.

"Not gon' be anyone else around, so you can wear—o' not wear—whatever y' want," LeBeau suggested with a grin, his voice pitched low.

Well, that explained where his mind was, anyway. Last step. Now, nothing separated him from the mark but the smallest stretch of empty space. Adrian turned his body to block his hands from casual view.

Rogue blushed, but tipped her head up a fraction, her lips parting in silent invitation.

It simply couldn't get any better, Adrian decided. He reached for LeBeau's pocket, timing the motion to coincide with the shift as the Guildmaster leaned down to kiss her. Eyes closed, no less. The man really was completely--

Adrian slid his hand inside the duster's interior pocket, careful not to catch the material.

--utterly--

He felt cool plastic beneath his fingertips.

--_stupid_--

The card came away clean, and Adrian tucked it into the sleeve of his suit jacket with a twitch of his wrist. He allowed himself a small smile as he walked away.

#-#-#-#

Bobby stiffened as Adrian passed by Remy and Rogue. Adrian gave them hardly a glance, twisting his shoulders as he maneuvered his way through the crowd. Bobby's instincts began to scream.

He mentally backed up, reviewing the last few seconds, but could find nothing alarming in Adrian's behavior that would trigger such a reaction.

Bobby grimaced. _All that means is that I missed it._ Remy had taught him to trust his instincts. Somewhere, something had tripped his thief's senses, even if he couldn't identify what.

He turned to Deidre, giving his wife an apologetic smile and a quick kiss.

"I have to go."

Diedre frowned, but nodded. Though he hadn't shared with her the details of the meeting Jubilee had photographed, she understood the danger Adrian posed as well as Bobby's absolute dedication to protecting the Guildmaster in any way he could. They both owed Remy too much for it to be any other way.

Bobby touseled his daughter's hair, where she sat on Diedre's hip. "Goodnight, sweetheart."

Clarissa grinned and made grabbing motions with one hand, which passed for a wave at her age. Bobby returned the wave then turned away.

He kept Adrian in sight as he made his way through the crowded cavern. The area had become the social hub of the Guild, and was almost always filled with people. The crowd served as decent camouflage, allowing Bobby to tail Adrian across the main cavern and into the tunnels beyond. There he had to drop back, allowing the other man to move well ahead of him or risk being noticed. But the only reason Bobby could think of for Adrian taking this path was because it led to one of the primary exits from the Guild complex. So that was where he headed.

Once he'd passed through the imaging station, Bobby broke into a jog. He stripped off the leather jacket he'd been wearing against the constant underground chill and quickly turned it inside out. Here was where Remy's constant drilling about contingency planning and thinking ahead really came in handy, he decided. The interior of the coat was leather, too—done in a stylish gray with a broad white stripe down the back. He slipped the jacket back on and zipped it up.

He pushed through the nondescript metal door at the end of the tunnel and emerged onto a sidewalk in the middle of nighttime New York. Quickly he looked around. Adrian was just lowering himself into a cab about a block and a half down the street. Bobby took note of the cab's ID number and turned away. His bike was parked a few feet from the door in the opposite direction.

Moving as quickly as he dared, Bobby swung a leg over the seat of the Suzuki motorcycle—a sleek racing number which Remy derisively referred to as a crotch rocket—and stuffed the helmet on his head. Both the bike and the helmet were painted the same gunmetal color as his jacket. The ensemble, with its muted colors and opaque helmet screen, granted Bobby a unique kind of anonymity.

With a glance at traffic, Bobby pulled out into the street. He caught sight of Adrian's cab after a minute, double checking the number against the one in his head, then dropped back a ways to remain inconspicuous. He had his cell phone on him and debated calling Remy to let him know something was up, but eventually decided against it. The man deserved one night off. Until Bobby had some kind of conclusive proof that this was something Remy needed to know about _tonight_, he would handle it on his own.

A few blocks south of Central Park, Adrian's cab pulled over and the thief emerged. He leaned down to talk to the cabbie, obviously telling him to wait, then stepped up onto the sidewalk. Bobby pulled over at the corner about a block away. He parked the bike and knelt down beside it, pretending to examine the area around the engine housing. Both he and the bike were tucked out of Adrian's direct line of sight, but by leaning forward just a bit Bobby could see around the corner to where the thief stood, waiting.

Ten minutes passed. Adrian paced impatiently until a dark sedan pulled up. A black motorcycle similar to Bobby's trailed the sedan then pulled around it, coming to a stop at an angle in front of the sedan's nose. The rider, who was dressed in black leathers that matched the bike, planted his feet on the ground, but didn't dismount.

A man got out of the back of the sedan. Bobby recognized him after a moment as Alan Garbo and his stomach knotted. He cursed himself silently. He was still looking for someone who could confirm Garbo's affiliation—neither Logan nor Mystique had been able to provide him with a contact who knew people inside OZT.

Garbo carried a briefcase in one hand, and Bobby knew instinctively that a trade was about to take place. He spent a moment fervently wishing he had his camera with him, but he hadn't yet had a chance to get it back from Jubilee. Whatever happened here would go unrecorded, with nothing but his own word as to the events.

Adrian and Garbo spoke briefly and then the ex-CIA agent opened the briefcase he carried and showed the contents to Adrian. Bobby caught a glimpse of neat rows of bills, and from its size estimated the briefcase to hold something close to a quarter-million dollars.

Adrian extended one hand as Garbo closed and latched the briefcase. Bobby couldn't quite see what the thief held, save that it was small and rectangular, like a credit card. Garbo took the item and passed the briefcase to Adrian in a single motion.

With a sharp nod, Adrian took his leave of the other. He walked quickly back to his cab and got in. The cab pulled away.

Bobby rose to his feet and slung a leg over the seat of the bike. For a moment he was tempted to stay on Adrian, but instinct told him the thief had accomplished what he came outside to do. Most likely he would make arrangements for the money and then head back to the Guild complex. Finding out what Garbo was going to do with whatever Adrian had sold him was potentially much more important.

Garbo walked over to the man on the black motorcycle. He held out the card, which the rider accepted and tucked inside his jacket. Immediately, the rider revved the engine and peeled out into the street.

Nerves tingling with adrenaline, Bobby hurried to follow him.

#-#-#-#

"This is nice, sugah."

Remy looked up to find Rogue leaning against the edge of the archway leading into the small room adjacent to their bedroom. Usually, the area served as a rather useless sitting room, but today the couch had been pushed against the wall and Remy had brought in a small, circular table and two chairs.

He straightened from where he'd been putting the finishing touches on their meal. It was still the same cafeteria-style food that everyone in the complex had to live with, but the two place settings were china and a bouquet of roses sat in the center of the table. Soft music played in the background from a small stereo system.

Remy grinned and adopted a thick, false French accent. "Welcome to Che LeBeau, madam." He bowed with a flourish and heard Rogue giggle.

"Ooh, _madam_. Ah like the sound o' that." She came forward into the room, hips swaying softly as she walked.

Remy stepped around the table and took Rogue into his arms, discovering in the process that she was wearing a simple, free-flowing gown he didn't recognize. She molded her body against him, and he took the opportunity to kiss her. He kept it casual, seeing as they were just getting ready to sit down to dinner, but that was hard to do when she felt so _right_ in his arms.

She sighed softly as they parted. A nervous little tremor ran through her heat signature, quickly damping out. "Thank ya for doin' this." She nodded toward the table. "It seems like it's been a long time since we've been out on a date."

"It has been a long long time," he agreed. It had been five months or more since that night they'd had dinner with the Drakes. "A lot's happened since then."

She snorted in amusement. "Just a bit, sugah." Her words were laced with irony.

Uncertain how to respond to that, Remy turned her toward the table and held her chair. Rogue settled into her seat, her heat signature smooth and bright and he tucked her chair up to the table. She busied herself with her napkin as he went around to his own seat.

"Did ah tell ya ah talked ta Kurt again yesterday?" Rogue laid her napkin in her lap and raised her head to look at him over the spray of roses. There was an edge to her voice that made him think she wasn't thrilled with how the conversation had gone.

Remy shook his head. "Y' said y' were goin' to." He'd talked with the British Guildmaster and gotten his agreement to facilitate putting Excaliber in touch with the appropriate people to help them. Rogue was supposed to give Kurt a call to let him know how to make contact with the Guild-- though Excaliber wouldn't know that was who they were dealing with. He picked up his wine and sipped it.

"He had the gall ta ask me if ah was pregnant."

Remy very nearly snorted wine out his nose. He coughed, trying to recover, and heard Rogue snicker.

"Sorry, sugah. Ah should've warned ya."

Remy waved her apology away as he dabbed his lips with his napkin. "I didn' realize we were t' the point o' talkin' about children." His tone came out drier than he intended, but she didn't seem to take offense.

"Well, that would be puttin' the cart before the horse, now wouldn't it?" Her heat signature flickered, colors flaring unevenly, but her voice was amused. "Anyway, ah really had ta bite mah tongue ta keep from tellin' mah well-intentioned brother a thing or two."

Remy shrugged sympathetically. "Comes wit' the territory, chere." He'd fought that urge for four years with the X-Men.

"Ah know. It was kinda funny, honestly." She raised a hand to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. "But ah really wanted ta reach through the phone an' strangle him."

Remy chuckled. "You can pay him back by makin' him babysit when the day does arrive."

From the way her signature swirled, he had the feeling he'd taken her by surprise. She gave an embarrassed little laugh. "Ah'm not sure ah'm ready ta have a serious conversation that involves you an' me havin' children," she told him.

Remy couldn't help his grin. "Given your plans f' de evenin', chere, de possibility does exist."

"_Mah_ plans?" Heat crept up her neck into her cheeks, but laughter underlay her words. "Like ya haven't been tryin' ta seduce me f' years now."

He leaned back casually in his seat. "Au contraire, cherie. I distinctly remember bein' fast asleep an' you not bein' able t' keep y' hands off me."

The flush in her cheeks intensified. "Well, what do ya expect a girl ta do when she finds a half-naked man in her bed?" she shot back.

Remy laughed outright. "Y' wan' a list?"

Her fork clattered on her plate as she covered her mouth with her hands. He could see her shoulders shaking as she laughed. "Right this moment, no," she said once she'd recovered. "But later, ah just might." Her voice held a wealth of promise.

Remy decided to let that one go. It was enough that she was willing to play, and that the old joke had gained a response other than mortified retreat. They ate in companionable silence, though Rogue appeared to be pushing her food around on her plate more than actually eating it. Her heat signature rippled from time to time, but remained steady overall.

Eventually, Remy set his silverware aside and laid his napkin atop them. Rogue looked up, her heart rate accelerating. He stood.

"Dance with me."

She set her napkin aside as well and rose. Remy drew her into his arms, finding she fit just as perfectly now as she had at the evening's start. She wrapped her arms around his neck and tucked her head beneath his chin. Remy breathed in the scent of her as they swayed gently to the music. He let his hands roam the curve of her waist, feeling the soft, slick fabric of her dress scrunch beneath his fingertips.

"What color is dis?" he finally asked. He missed color, missed being able to see the luminous, almost unearthly green of her eyes, the soft pink of her lips. And he truly regretted not being able to see her in the gowns she wore to the Club.

"It's gold," she answered, her voice soft. "You don't recognize it, do you?"

"Should I?" He cast back through his memory, wondering when she might have had occasion to wear a gown like this. He slid one hand up her back, then along the dress' conservative swoop neckline and down one long sleeve. It was too plain for the Club and too whimsical for much of anything else.

Her breath tickled his skin as she chuckled. "It's part of mah weddin' gown. The underlayer." Her arms tightened fractionally. "Ah didn't want ta try wearin' the whole thing—ah doubt ah could put it on all by mahself anyway—but ah wanted somethin' from then."

Remy understood, with a sharp stab of guilt for how much his choices had cost her. Even something so simple and profound as her wedding night. He could never have asked her to sacrifice so much of herself, her dreams, and the fact that she had chosen to do so still had the power to rob him of breath. He pulled back just far enough to capture her face in his hands. He kissed her forehead, her closed eyelids, her mouth.

Rogue gasped softly, her signature lighting with desire. Her reaction nearly proved his undoing. Remy pulled her close, burying his face in her thick hair as he fought for control. His blood pounded in his ears, nearly drowning out reason. But he wasn't one of the premier thieves on the planet for nothing. A lifetime of strict training, of discipline and self-control, served him well now. He drew on those resources, forcing his body to obey him. This night was entirely about Rogue-- about unlocking the heavy chains of terror that bound her heart and setting her most closely guarded treasure free. In that sense, perhaps, it was like a pinch, but not like any other in his life.

Once he'd mastered himself, he straightened, smoothing her hair with one hand. She tipped her head upward, her body soft and pliant against him. Remy bent to kiss her and felt her immediate surrender. He deepened the kiss, tangling his fingers in the hair at the nape of her neck. And this time, though she still twitched—still uncertain, still afraid—she didn't pull away.

She sighed shakily as they parted. "Ah can't tell ya how many times ah've dreamed of this." Her voice was little more than a whisper.

Remy gave a low chuckle. "I'd have t' admit t' fantasizing about y' more than a little, too," he murmured beside her ear.

As expected, she blushed hotly. Remy caught her hand and raised it. Gently spreading her fingers, he kissed her palm and then the inside of her wrist. He could feel her pulse racing beneath his lips, twin to his own.

She made a noise in the back of her throat, somewhere between a gasp and a moan. "Remy?"

He raised his head, brushing his thumb across the soft skin where his lips had so recently been. "Oui, chere?"

"Take me ta bed." There was no hesitation in her voice.

Remy grinned, a fierce, hot joy spreading through his chest. Wordlessly, he drew her toward the bedroom.

#-#-#-#

The rider on the black motorcycle made Bobby about eight blocks later.

Bobby's first hint came when the rider drew a small sub-machine gun from a holster near his leg and aimed it behind him, spraying bullets. At least one struck Bobby's bike, throwing bright sparks as it ricocheted away. Another sliced across his ribs, hot and agonizing. Bobby had no time to wonder how bad it might be as car tires screeched and horns blared.

Bobby cursed and yanked on the handle bars, darting around the sudden chaos of braking, skidding automobiles. He kept the black rider in sight and leaned low over the top of the bike to reduce his profile. Drawing the handgun he carried, he returned fire, squinting against the bright muzzle flash.

The black rider peeled hard around a corner hemmed in on all sides by tall office buildings. Bobby had no option but to follow him. He took the corner wide, nearly sideswiping the cars parked along the curb, but the maneuver probably saved his life as the rider fired behind him again. Bobby swerved, fishtailing behind the black bike as he tried to stay out of his line of fire.

Then, with an explosive roar, the front tire of Bobby's motorcycle burst. He felt the bike destabilize and knew he was going to lose it. Quickly wrenching the handle bars around, he laid the bike down. He fell clear, hitting the pavement on his back in a blinding flash of pain. The motorcycle slid ahead of him, sending up a fountain of sparks as metal dug into cement. Bobby followed it, sliding feet first down the center of the street. He still had his gun and took aim at the rider's retreating figure, squeezing off the last few rounds in his clip before the other disappeared around the next corner. He couldn't tell for certain if he hit him, but from the way the black rider suddenly wavered, he thought maybe he had.

Bobby slid to a stop, panting, his side and back both burning fiercely. A moment later, his bike hit a parked car with a metallic crunch that made him wince. He rolled over with a groan and pushed himself up onto his knees. From there he straightened and tried to take stock of the situation.

It only took him a couple of seconds to realize where he was. Sleek skyscrapers rose all around him, and just barely visible in the direction the rider on the black bike had disappeared he could see a slice of the Worthington building, brightly lit as it rose against the night sky. All of a sudden, Bobby had a sinking certainty he knew what Adrian had sold to OZT.

He had to warn Warren. Blood pounding in his ears, Bobby dug inside his jacket for his cellphone. He pulled it out, only to find the slender piece of electronics blank, dead, its plastic faceplate shattered by a bullet. He threw it away with a curse. Grimacing, he clambered to his feet. He paused just long enough to trade out the clip in his Beretta and chamber a round, then took off running for the tall spire of Worthington Industries.

By the time he reached the front entrance to the skyscraper, the wound in his side was screaming. It couldn't be too bad, though, he reminded himself. He was still on his feet. He slid to a stop against the tall glass doors. The front lobby of Worthington Industries was brightly lit. A vaguely familiar man stood inside a semi-circular desk at the center of the wide space, while a couple of uniformed security guards lounged at one of the imaging stations beyond. Everything looked normal.

Bobby yanked open the door and strode inside. The man at the desk watched him approach, his wary expression giving way to surprise as he recognized Bobby.

"Mr. Drake." He looked Bobby over in alarm. "Is everything all right? I wasn't told you would be coming by tonight." Bobby had spent a fair amount of time at WI checking and re-checking the installation of the new security system.

Bobby shook his head and stuck one hand out over the edge of the desk. "I need to talk to Warren—Mr. Worthington—_now_."

The night man gulped at his tone and grabbed the phone from its cradle. He pressed a couple of buttons on the numeric pad and handed it to Bobby without a word.

Bobby tucked the phone against his ear. "Get ahold of whoever's running Security tonight and tell them to lock down the building," he told the other man. "Then get people up to the penthouse. OZT's got an agent loose in the building somewhere."

The phone rang in his ear. After the second ring, it picked up and Bobby heard Warren's voice on the far end.

"Yes, Darrin, what is it?"

In a far corner of his brain, Bobby was impressed that Warren knew the night manager's name. "Warren, it's Bobby."

"Bobby?" Warren's voice immediately sharpened with concern. "What's up? Wait, are you in the lobby?"

Bobby shook his head. "Yeah. Listen, you and Betsy need to get out of the penthouse. OZT's got somebody in the building. He's armed and he's got free access through the security."

"_What?_ How?"

Bobby didn't get a chance to reply as a series of sharp staccato bursts rang in his ear. He heard Warren cry out, but whether it was in pain or merely surprise he couldn't be sure.

"Warren!" Bobby threw the phone at the night manager and spun toward the back of the building. Beyond the imaging stations, one of Worthington's security people burst out into the hall with a couple of armed guards in tow.

The security supervisor, a man named John Ortiz who Bobby recognized from his trips to WI, had a walkie-talkie to his mouth. "I've got shots fired in the penthouse," he was saying as he jogged toward the elevators. The men behind him, Bobby was pleased to see, were readying high-power laser rifles and leaving their sidearms holstered.

Bobby ran to catch up with them. He vaulted across one of the empty guards' stations by the imagers, landing with a grace that would have made Remy proud, and sprinted after the group. John saw him coming and held the elevator.

Bobby nodded in terse greeting as he ducked into the elevator car. John returned the motion, his expression grim. "So who's our shooter?" he asked. John was perhaps fifty, with a sprinkling of gray in his black hair and busy mustache, and a gravelly voice that reminded Bobby strongly of Wolverine.

Bobby shrugged. "OZT, probably."

John withdrew his passcard from his pocket and swiped it across the sensor above the floor buttons to unlock access to the upper levels. The elevator rose, accelerating in a whir of machinery.

"How'd he get in?" John asked.

Bobby reached over to flick John's passcard. The other man's eyebrows rose toward his hairline. There were only three of the "golden" passcards in existence. Warren had one, whoever was manning the Worthington security office had the second, and Remy had the third. Even Betsy didn't get a free pass through the security system. The OZT agent could have come up from the parking garage or through one of the service entrances without causing security to so much as hiccup.

The elevator began to slow. Bobby and John took up positions beside the doors, guns held ready. The two uniformed guards fell in beside them. The guys with the laser rifles would go first, of course, which was just fine by Bobby. The wound in his ribs burned as sweat trickled into it.

The doors slid aside. Bobby took in the details as he followed the uniformed guards out into the penthouse apartment. Nothing looked immediately out of place. From the elevator Bobby could see into the dining room straight ahead. A fire burned in the Italian marble fireplace, raising lustrous reflections from the antique table and accompanying chairs. A spray of orchids decorated the table. To the right, a short hallway led to a living room. Bobby could see only a small slice of the room—the back of a white couch and a piece of a painting in a gilded frame. To the left, a longer hall led toward the bedrooms.

John pointed toward the bedrooms, indicating he and one of the uniformed guards would go that way. Bobby nodded and followed the other guard down the hall toward the living room.

A loud noise from the direction of the living room made him freeze. Quickly, the uniform moved forward and swung around the corner into the room. Bobby was only a moment behind him. He stayed out of the guard's line of fire as he, too, turned the corner.

Bobby took in the scene before him with a sense of unreality. Warren lay on the floor beside the couch, face up, his wings spread limply across the furniture. A large red stain covered his chest. Bobby couldn't tell from where he was whether he was still breathing. Just beyond him, the OZT assassin and Betsy were locked in a combat stance. The man held the submachine gun up with both hands, awkwardly trying to deflect a blow from her katana. She was dressed only in a short satin negligee which was spattered with blood, as were her arms and face.

Betsy gave a guttural scream and pulled the sword back for another swing. Bobby didn't bother to announce himself. He simply took aim and fired. The first shot spun the OZT agent around, and Bobby put two more rounds directly into his chest.

The assassin collapsed, bloody foam spraying from his lips. For a second no one moved. Then Betsy dropped her sword on the carpet with a dull thud and fell to her knees beside Warren. She tore his shirt apart as Bobby joined her. Nausea coiled in his gut, and the smell of blood was nearly overwhelming.

"Is he alive?" he demanded.

Betsy pressed her fingers to the side of Warren's neck and, after a moment, nodded.

Bobby turned to the assassin. His hands had begun to shake and he had to take a couple of deep breaths to still them. He yanked down the zipper on the man's riding jacket and rifled his pockets until he found the stolen passcard. John and the other uniformed guard arrived at a run, and John immediately got on his walkie-talkie to call for medical assistance.

Betsy looked up from where she was applying pressure to the ragged wound in Warren's chest. "Tell Warren's pilot to get the helicopter spun up," she instructed John sharply. "And then call ahead to Mount Sinai so they'll know to expect us."

Feeling helpless, Bobby turned back to Psylocke. "Do you have a phone up here I can use?"

She jerked her chin toward the doorway on the far side of the room, her violet eyes wild. "In the den. Why?"

Bobby shook his head. "I need to call Remy."

#-#-#-#

Remy woke from a light doze. He opened his eyes blearily in the darkness, uncertain what had woken him. Memory returned, soaking into him in a warm rush and bringing with it a deep sense of contentment. He grinned lazily. In retrospect, he shouldn't have been surprised that Rogue, for all her loud, brazen manner, would be just the opposite in bed-- shy and sweet, and for all her eagerness, nearly silent. But the way she had tried to say his name, only to end up swallowing it as she tumbled helplessly over the edge, was a memory he would treasure.

The cool underground air kissed his skin, and only then did he realize that Rogue no longer lay curled up against him. He blinked again, more awake now, and silently berated himself. He really shouldn't have fallen asleep on her.

He raised his head, searching for her. He was pretty sure he'd only been dozing for fifteen or twenty minutes, at most. Rogue wasn't in the wide bed, or anywhere in the bedroom. Feeling the first stirring of alarm, he sat up. A faint glow leaked from beneath the door to the bathroom. Only then did he register the sound of the shower running, and felt some of his tension drain away. That was fairly normal. He debated simply lying back down, but then decided that the opportunity to climb into the shower with Rogue wasn't one to be missed.

Yawning, he clambered out of bed and shuffled toward the bathroom. With each step his awareness sharpened, a warning tingling across his senses, but it wasn't until his fingers lit on the doorknob that he realized why. Beneath the rush of the running water he heard a different sound, one that made his blood freeze in absolute terror.

He shoved the bathroom door open. Rogue sat curled against the back wall of the shower, sobbing brokenly into her drawn up knees.

The bottom dropped out of Remy's world. He staggered, grabbing the door jamb for support. _No. Nononono. This can't be happening._ The thought spun sickeningly through his mind.

For a moment he simply wanted to run. After everything they'd been through-- everything it had taken to get to this point-- how could things have gone so horribly wrong? He had _not_ pushed her. He'd let her set the timetable, let her come to him, and he'd made dead certain, every step of the way that she was still with him—still wanting, still eager. Her body couldn't lie to him, not with his vision the way it was.

Finally, he pushed himself away from the door frame, forcing himself forward into the room. He couldn't breathe.

He opened the shower door and stepped inside. The water was tepid, quickly running toward cold. He twisted the knob, bringing a fresh burst of warmth.

Rogue raised her head as he cautiously knelt in front of her. He had no idea what expression might be on her face, only that her breathing was ragged and still broken by little sobs. The cooling water had lowered her skin temperature just enough to wreck any ability he might have had to read her emotions.

"Hey," she said on the tail end of a shuddering breath.

Remy was afraid to touch her. "Chere—Rogue—" He had no idea what to say.

She uncurled from her tight ball and reached for him. Remy gladly took her into his arms, reassured somewhat by the fact that she wasn't flinching away from him. Rogue buried her face in his chest and wrapped her arms tightly around him. Slowly her breathing began to even out, and bit by bit he felt the muscles in her shoulders and back begin to relax.

"Ya weren't supposed ta wake up," she said with a little sniff and raised a hand to comb the wet hair away from her face. There was the faintest note of reproach in her voice.

Inexplicably, the idea that she had wanted to hide this from him made Remy angry. He throttled his reaction mercilessly, but could do nothing about the bitter knife that went through his heart. "Why not?" He wasn't sure why he asked, or if he could stand to hear the answer.

"Because ah knew ya'd think it was somethin' ta do with you, or us, and it ain't." She burrowed more deeply against his chest as her tears started up anew. "Ah didn't want ya feelin' guilty over somethin' that ain't ya fault."

Remy tried to make sense of the statement, but couldn't entirely wrap his mind around it. "What isn't m' fault?" he finally asked. He felt like he was picking his way through a minefield with no idea what he might accidentally set off that would rip him to pieces.

"This—me." She sat back, gesturing vaguely with one hand. Sighing, she drew her knees up once again and perched her elbow atop them, knotting her fingers in her bangs. "Ah don't even know foh sure why ah'm cryin'." She leaned her head back against the wall of the shower and wiped her cheeks with one hand. "Ah was lyin' there, thinkin' about how good ah felt—" A hint of a smile lit her voice, but was almost immediately drowned out as her voice began to shake. "An' it all just kinda… hit me… all at once." She clamped a hand across her mouth as a sob was wrenched out of her.

Remy couldn't stand it. He moved closer to her and pulled her into his arms once more. She clung to him, her tears coming full force. The bout only lasted for a few minutes, though, and then began to taper off.

Rogue heaved a sigh against his chest. "When ah first got mah powers, ah was terrified of touchin' people—even bein' near them. But in the back of mah mind ah kept hopin' that it wouldn't always be that way." She drew a shaking breath. "Mystique made me use mah powers, an' for a while ah thought ah'd eventually get control. Ah really did."

She went rigid in his arms, every muscle tensed as she fought a new round of sobs. But after Cody, an' _Carol_—" She gulped. "Even you, sugah—ah knew it was never going ta happen an' ah was just going ta have ta _accept_…" She drew another shuddering breath. "Ah was going ta have ta accept that ah would never get married or have children… never even have a lover—" Her voice broke on the word, and Remy tightened his grip, his heart aching for the raw pain he could hear in her voice. Rogue sniffed mightily and went on. "That ah would never really be a woman, not in any of the ways that matter."

Remy stroked her hair, murmuring reassurances to her and wondering how she had managed to keep going for so many years when the future she could see was so bleak and empty.

Rogue sighed again, softly this time. "And ah'm just a little overwhelmed right now, is all."

Out in the bedroom, the phone rang. Remy ignored it and instead concentrated on the woman in his arms.

"Phone, sugah," she said after a moment.

Remy hugged her a little more tightly. "I hear it."

"Aren't ya going ta answer it?"

"No." Another shrill ring punctuated the word.

She raised her head. "It ain't like it might be a wrong number," she said, sounding both amused and exasperated.

Remy just closed his eyes and laid his cheek against the top of her head. He really didn't care who might be calling. Guild matters would simply have to wait.

"Remy, go get the phone" This time exasperation dominated her voice. She wriggled out of his grasp and started to stand. "Ah'm all right, really."

He rose with her, his conscience ticking at him. He'd left pretty explicit orders that he be left alone for this one night, so whoever was calling would have to be pretty certain that whatever they had was worth disobeying a direct order from the Guildmaster.

He caught her elbow. "Y' sure?"

Rogue nodded. "Go on."

Reluctantly he stepped out of the shower. Grabbing his towel, he wrapped it around himself to ward off the worst of the underground chill and went to get the phone. Behind him, the shower cut out.

He found the offending piece of electronics and put it to his ear. "What?"

"Hey, boss. Sorry to interrupt." It was Bobby, sounding both exhausted and grim. Remy's gut clenched in apprehension.

"What is it?" He leaned one hip against the edge of the desk, already certain he wasn't going to like what he heard.

Bobby sighed, and Remy's sense of impending doom intensified. "I'm at Worthington. You need to get over here, Remy. Warren's been shot."


	39. Chapter 39

Chapter 39

Rogue was seated with one foot tucked up under her in the high-backed leather chair behind the Guildmaster's desk when Mystique walked in. After getting a crash course from Diedre, she'd spent much of the evening sorting through Remy's email. The man maintained no less than eight email addresses, some of them attached to specific aliases and others divided up by the echelon of people to whom those addresses were given.

Rogue looked up at her mother's entrance, and quickly locked the computer in front of her. She closed the lid. "Evenin' Mama."

"Good evening, my dear." Mystique favored her with a smile as she collapsed gracefully into one of the chairs fronting the desk. "You look like you're settling in."

"Ah suppose," Rogue agreed, unconsciously steeling herself. Her mother was never this nice unless she wanted something. "Did ya need somethin'?"

Mystique made an airy gesture. "Oh, I was looking for Remy, but I've heard he's gone topside for some reason or other. Do you know where he is?"

Rogue bit the inside of her cheek. "No, ah don't." She shrugged, affecting unconcern. "He said he had some errands ta run." That was actually a bald-faced lie. When Bobby had called with the news about Warren, Remy had immediately fetched Scott and Logan and the three of them had left for Worthington Industries. But though Scott and Logan had both returned to the complex, at least briefly, since then, no one had seen Remy. Rogue hadn't dared ask either X-Man about her husband's whereabouts because of who might overhear. And now she had no idea what she was supposed to do, other than to act like nothing was wrong and that she wasn't worried sick—not only for Remy but for Warren as well.

Needing something to occupy her hands, she reopened the laptop and attempted to return to her task. Minutes passed in silence.

Finally, Mystique leaned back in her seat and steepled her fingers in front of her lips. She watched Rogue with her eerie pupil-less eyes, her expression appraising.

"So, how was it?" she asked.

Rogue froze, unable to prevent the heat from building in her cheeks. "How was what?" she responded after a moment, deciding to play dumb.

Mystique clucked her tongue. "My dear girl… Just because the thieves have no idea what that little 'night off' was about, don't think the rest of us are so ignorant."

Rogue's stomach did a giddy little twirl at the reminder of the previous night. She cleared her throat to cover the reaction. "Apparently ya ain't too polite, either."

"_Tsk tsk_. Grammar, child."

Rogue rolled her eyes and went back to trying to decipher the email she'd pulled up. She could read the ones written in either English or French, but she had to rely on a translation program for the rest.

Mystique chuckled lightly. "It took you long enough to screw up your courage, so to speak."

"_Mama_." The flush in her cheeks intensified until her entire face felt like it was tingling. "Ah'm so not having this conversation with you." A band seemed to constrict around her chest, making it hard to breathe.

"But it would be such a delightful mother-daughter bonding moment."

Rogue slammed the lid of the laptop shut as her temper flared. "We are _not_ havin' this conversation." She glared at her mother. "An' if ya even _attempt_ ta make a bondage joke, so help me, ah'm gonna climb across this desk an' slap ya."

Mystique laughed merrily. "I was actually thinking ménage-a-trois rather than bondage."

The heat left Rogue's face so fast that she felt like someone had poured ice water over her head. "That's not funny."

Mystique cocked her head, her lips curling upward in a smile. "My dear, it's hysterical."

"Maybe ta you." Rogue bit her lip, feeling sick inside. "Is that why ya wanted ta make sure ah knew? Just so ya'd have a knife ta twist whenever the mood strikes ya?"

Mystique's expression sobered. She broke away to look around the confines of the office before returning her gaze to Rogue. "This would be a lot easier if you didn't take everything so seriously."

"What would?" Rogue eyed her mother. Her heart pounded in her chest like a war drum, fast and angry.

"Talking to you." Mystique blew her breath out in a sigh. "Despite my somewhat abraisive manner, I really do care about your happiness." She didn't quite meet Rogue's eyes.

Rogue blinked, taken aback. She had to take a couple of deep breaths before she felt safe to speak. "It'd be a lot easier ta listen to ya if ya'd sheathe ya claws once in a while, too."

Her mother arched her brows. "Touche."

Rogue leaned gingerly back in her seat and brushed her bangs out of her face. Beating around the bush never got her anywhere with her mother. "So am ah ta take it that ya actually came by out o' concern for mah wellbeing?"

Mystique nodded. "Of course."

"Well, ah'm fine." Her fingers curled around the chair's armrests of their own volition.

"Are you?"

Rogue met her mother's strange eyes with determination. "Yes."

Mystique's expression lightened minutely. "That's good. As you probably know, I think rather highly of Remy, but men are… selfish creatures by nature. I just wanted to make sure."

Rogue shook her head. She'd always known her mother was cynical about men, but she'd never seen it quite so clearly. The idea that Remy might have taken advantage of her was ludicrous, really. Despite their rocky history, she was pretty sure he'd given more in the relationship than he'd gotten, and last night had been no different.

"Ah'm _fine_, Mama," she reiterated, a soft smile tugging at the corners of her mouth for the memories her thoughts conjured. "Better than fine, even."

Mystique watched her for a moment longer then acquiesced with a nod. She rose to her feet, brushing her hands together as if ridding herself of the entire topic. "All right, then. I suppose I'll go and leave you to your Guildmistress-ing." She flashed a thin crescent of a smile and turned away.

She'd nearly reached the door before Rogue found her voice again. "Mama?"

Mystique paused with her hand on the doorknob and looked back over her shoulder. "Yes, my dear?"

"Thanks foh carin'." There was no sarcasm in her words. As twisted and difficult as her mother was, she'd been the first person in Rogue's life who truly had cared about her.

Mystique's expression froze. She blinked once, looking distinctly uncomfortable, before breaking out in a bright, patently false smile.

"Isn't that what mothers are for?" she asked, and breezed out the door before Rogue had a chance to reply.

#-#-#-#

Warren woke to a pale gray light and diffuse pain. Softly, a man's voice murmured words in a language he didn't understand. He blinked, and the ceiling came into focus. It was a plain, industrial white, illuminated by two dimmed fluorescent panels. He felt like he was floating-- spinning ever so slowly clockwise.

The voice continued, and Warren finally recognized it. He turned his head, startled to find Gambit seated next to the bed, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and his long hair falling around his face. Warren couldn't tell if he was praying or simply talking to himself. Neither one seemed very likely.

"Remy?"

The other man's head jerked up and his voice fell silent. He looked over at Warren, his dark eyes underlined with smudges of exhaustion. "Y' awake." Something like relief passed across his face.

Warren shifted his weight, wincing at a sharp pain in chest. "What happened?" Even as he asked the question, though, the details began to fill in. He remembered the man standing in the doorway of his living room, gun in hand, and the deafeningly loud reports as he opened fire. A horrible thought occurred to him. "Where's Betsy?" He looked around, hoping to find her somewhere in the room. "Is she all right?"

Remy nodded. "She's okay. I told her I'd stay wit' y' a while, so she could get somet'ing t' eat." He rolled his shoulders, grimacing, then drew a blocky hand gun from beneath his jacket. He turned it over in his hands, checked the action and returned it to its holster.

"You expecting trouble?" Warren glanced involuntarily toward the closed door. "Where are we, anyway?" Talking made his chest ache, but it was hard to care through the drugs.

"Mount Sinai," Remy answered his second question first. He leaned back in his chair and raked his fingers through his hair. "As f' the trouble…" He shrugged eloquently.

Warren stared at the ceiling as he sorted through his memories. "The man who shot me," he finally said. The words sounded very strange. "Bobby said he was OZT." He looked over at Remy, and was startled by the expression of real shame that flitted across his face.

Remy nodded. "Probably." He wouldn't meet Warren's gaze but instead stared at a point on the far side of his hospital bed.

"How did he get in?"

The distant gaze didn't change. "He had my card."

Warren didn't really have time to digest the meaning of his words as the door to the room opened. Faster than Warren could register in his drugged state, Remy was on his feet, gun drawn and pointed unerringly toward the doorway.

He lowered his weapon as Betsy's purple hair became visible. Something inside Warren loosened at the sight of the woman who had increasingly come to mean everything to him. Scott, Bobby and Logan filed in behind her. Bobby, he noted, held himself stiffly as if he'd been injured.

Betsy's eyes lit as she realized he was awake. "Warren!" She rushed across the room and scooped up one of his hands in both of hers. Warren gave her a smile, but most of his attention was taken up by his friend and team leader.

Scott stood with his arms crossed over his chest, a sure sign he was angry. He'd obviously heard the last part of the conversation. "Speaking of which… what I don't get is how Adrian managed to pick your pocket." He glared at Remy.

Behind him, Logan growled softly. "Give it a rest already, would ya?"

Scott gave no sign of having heard him. "You're _supposed_ to be one of the best thieves on the planet."

Remy's lips thinned. "I'm well aware dis is my fault."

"Is that your version of an apology?"

"Now wait a minute--" Bobby began heatedly, but Remy waved him down. Bobby bit back the rest of what he was going to say with an angry glare.

Warren was having a little trouble figuring out exactly what the argument was about, but he did successfully string together Bobby's comment on the phone about the man who'd shot him having a free pass through security with the mention of Adrian and pickpocketing. And Warren was no stranger to the nasty pitfalls of internal politics.

"We knew the passcard system was fundamentally flawed," he told Scott from his place in the wide hospital bed. His voice was scratchy and not nearly as strong as he'd like, but it effectively cut through the building tension. Scott looked over at him, his expression morphing from anger to guilt, and back.

Warren continued. "But it was off-the-shelf technology and could be put in place within a few weeks." He had to pause for a couple of breaths. "The biometric ID system is going to take months—particularly to build the database with all of my employees' information in it—and we needed something in the interim."

Scott stared at him as if he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing.

Logan took two steps, placing himself between Scott and Remy. "Y' ready ta let this go now, Fearless?" he asked in his gruff voice.

Scott transferred his attention to Wolverine. "An X-Man almost _died_, Logan. No, I am not ready to let it go." A cold ball formed in Warren's stomach at the confirmation of how close he'd come to dying.

Logan raised his bushy eyebrows. "And there were two X-Men watchin' his back that made sure he didn't," he answered reasonably. "Don't forget we're in a war here. Crap's gonna happen."

Warren registered the stubborn anger written on Scott's face, and he suddenly understood. Guilt was something the X-Men's leader didn't handle well, and he'd always taken his responsibility for the team a little too personally. Right now he was transferring that sense of guilt onto Gambit, who, though not totally blameless, didn't really deserve to take the brunt of it, either. Warren found it strange how much he identified with Remy these days. He was the only one of the X-Men who really understood what it was like to try to steer a large organization, and to carry the weight of responsibility for that many people's lives. Warren couldn't honestly call him a friend—his business was too distasteful for that—but he was very good at what he did and one of the most professional people Warren had ever met.

"Scott, drop it," Warren found himself saying. He glanced over at Remy, only to find the other watching him with a strangely haunted expression in his dark eyes. "You really can't blame Remy. It's called betrayal for a reason."

Remy winced at that, and though Scott's stormy expression didn't change, he shrugged as if acknowledging the point.

"So, what are you going to do about Adrian?" Bobby asked Remy as the silence began to stretch uncomfortably.

Remy uttered a caustic snort. "I don' know. Why do y' t'ink I'm still here?"

Bobby watched him for a moment, concern and anger warring on his face. "Can't you just call him to the ring? He sold us out to OZT."

Warren had met Adrian a few times while he and Betsy were still living in the thieves' complex, and had pegged him for a dangerous man then. He had no idea what this ring was that Bobby referred to, but if it resulted in Adrian paying for his duplicity, he was all for it.

"I'd like not'ing better," Remy answered. He shrugged, his gaze hard. "It ain' dat simple, unfortunately."

"Why not?" Bobby asked. "I can tie Adrian to Garbo and Garbo to the assassin."

Remy's expression soured. "Y' can tie Adrian t' this Garbo, sure enough. But unless someone can prove Garbo is connected t' OZT, it don' count. As far as Adrian's supporters are concerned, you'd say anyt'ing I tell y' to."

Bobby huffed, obviously frustrated by Remy's response. But he didn't argue the point.

A sound at the doorway interrupted them. Everyone in the room spun toward the door, weapons drawn, and Logan unsheathed the claws on his off hand. Warren blinked in surprise at the man who stood on the threshold.

Colonel Nick Fury raised both hands in front of him in a placating gesture. "Take it easy, X-Men. We're all friends here." He was in full uniform, looking as grim and proper as always. His weapon remained holstered at his hip.

Logan narrowed his eyes. "Since when?"

"What business does SHIELD have here?" Scott asked sharply.

Fury ignored Logan. Despite the weapons still pointed at him, he nodded over his shoulder to a pair of armed men in fatigues and body armor and the two took up guard stations outside the door. Fury stepped fully into the room and let the door close behind him.

"My orders are to provide security for Mr. Worthington." His gaze flickered from Scott to Warren then returned to the X-Men's field leader.

Scott adjusted his grip on his gun. "I thought SHIELD's imperative was to combat mutant terrorists." It was a label that had been applied to the X-Men on several occasions—the justification the government had used to send the original Sentinels, soldiers and SHIELD against them.

"As you've no doubt noticed, there are no mutants any more." Fury smiled, a thin, sardonic expression. "Besides, at the moment we kind of like our mutant terrorists."

Warren digested the statement with a sense of shock that he saw reflected on the other X-Men's faces. After a moment, Scott lowered his weapon and the others followed suit.

Fury let his hands fall to his sides. "Mr. Worthington's shooting has become news worldwide. The administration doesn't take kindly to anyone making a blatant assassination attempt against an American citizen—mutant or not."

Scott gave Fury a disbelieving stare that Warren echoed. "The administration? Since when has this president cared what OZT does?"

Colonel Fury scowled, making the flesh bunch beneath the edge of his eye patch. "You'd be surprised."

Scott raised his eyebrows. "So why isn't he shutting down OZT? Or are you going to try to tell me that Congress is still backing Bastion?"

Fury shook his head. "That's well above my pay grade, Cyclops. All I can say is that it's a lot more complicated than it appears."

The two men glared at each other for a couple of seconds before Fury cocked his head, his expression appraising. "You know, you're lucky OZT is rotten at anticipating targets. You're taking a big risk, coming here." He nodded toward the window on the far side of the room. "This building isn't reinforced. A single RPG round could wipe out half the X-Men."

Scott frowned, but went with the change in topic. "Don't worry, we're not staying." He looked around at the others, as if gathering their opinions as to whether Fury could be trusted. Then he turned to Warren. "I _was_ planning to get you out of here, too." To take him back to the complex, to recuperate in the safety of the thieves' med center under Hank's very capable supervision, no doubt. But Colonel Fury's presence opened up some intriguing possibilities.

"A couple a guards outside the door ain't gonna be much help if a prime sentinel shows up." Logan dabbed at the blood running down his knuckles from where he'd retracted his claws.

"No, we'd set up a full perimeter, including air support," Fury assured him.

"The Helicarrier?" Scott asked.

Fury shook his head. "Sorry. That's out of play for the moment." Something in his voice made Warren very curious where the Helicarrier might be, and why SHIELD would be operating without the support of its primary asset.

"Warren?" Scott turned to face him. "This is your call."

Warren looked from his team leader to Colonel Fury and finally to Betsy. There was potentially a lot to be gained by having an entity like SHIELD visibly aligned with the X-Men. It implied the government supported their efforts against OZT. It would help the resistance movement. And that might smooth a lot of legal ground once the lawsuit went forward.

"I think I'm going to take Colonel Fury up on his offer," he told them.

Betsy gave him a worried frown. "Are you sure, luv?" She glanced toward the window. "Like he said, all it would take is an RPG round."

Warren held her gaze as he nodded. "I'm sure. I can't let OZT make me back down." He turned to Scott. "I'm willing to trust SHIELD until I can get back to the Worthington building. The security there is still solid."

Scott gave him a dirty look at the oblique reminder. Beyond him, Colonel Fury raised the eyebrow over his good eye in obvious curiosity.

"Given how far OZT managed to penetrate, I'm surprised you'd be willing to set foot inside Worthington Industries without a total revamp," the colonel said.

Warren snorted, and immediately regretted it as a sharp pain stabbed through his chest. "That was a fluke," he managed after a moment. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Remy's expression flicker. But, he thought, Adrian had burned his one chance. Remy would not be caught unawares again. "The security system is still good enough to keep OZT out."

Scott exhaled sharply. "All right." He glanced at Fury then back to Warren. "We'll be in touch."

Without another word, the X-Men filed out of the room followed by Colonel Fury, leaving Warren alone with Betsy. Gratefully, Warren let his eyes sag shut. He couldn't afford to spend very long in this hospital bed, but for the moment, at least, he would be happy for the chance to sleep.

#-#-#-#

Rogue woke to the unfamiliar sounds of someone moving around in her bedroom. She froze, heart pounding, ears straining to listen. But almost immediately she heard Remy mutter something under his breath and the tension drained out of her in a rush, to be replaced with anger. He'd been gone more than twenty-four hours without a word to anyone. She'd finally given up and gone to bed some time around midnight, figuring it was better to sleep than to sit up worrying when there was absolutely nothing she could do.

She listened to the faint rustling of motion as Remy crossed the room, but instead of heading toward the closet he turned toward the sitting room. Rogue sat up in a sudden burst of panic.

"Remy, wait." She fumbled for the switch on the bedside lamp, and the room filled with warm, orange light. "I rearranged all the furniture in there." If he walked in expecting things to be where they'd been when he left, he could easily hurt himself.

Remy paused at the threshold to the sitting room and turned toward her. He looked awful, Rogue thought, shoving her anger aside for the moment. Exhaustion pulled at his long face, making it sag, and his eyes were dull. A bottle of scotch and a glass dangled from one hand.

Rogue slid out of bed and grabbed her robe from the bedpost where she habitually hung it. Belting it on, she crossed to where Remy stood, her fear increasing with every step. There was only one reason she could think of for him to look so defeated.

"Warren?" she asked when she reached him. Her lungs felt like they'd locked up, refusing to allow her to draw a breath.

A faint flicker of life came into his eyes. "He's gon' make it, chere."

Rogue's knees went a little weak with relief as the meaning of his words penetrated. "Oh, thank goodness." Though she and Warren had never been especially close, she counted him as a friend.

"He was awake an' talkin' when I left."

Rogue absorbed that, some of her anger resurfacing. He'd been at the hospital, then, at least part of the time.

Remy didn't seem to have any trouble reading her thoughts. His lips thinned. "Y' want t' show me what y' did wit' de furniture?" The question was sharp.

Rogue bit back an angry retort, her eyes stinging. The brief, nearly perfect time they'd spent together the previous night seemed a hundred years away suddenly. "All right," she managed in a nearly-normal voice. The last thing she wanted to do right now was fight with him.

"Here, let me take those." She took the bottle and glass from him so his hands would be free. She turned toward the sitting room. Remy followed her. Just inside the threshold, he reached up to lay his hand on her shoulder and Rogue couldn't help the little flutter in her stomach at that simple touch.

Trying to keep her voice even, she described the changes she'd made. She liked having the table in there—a quiet place where they could eat breakfast together or simply sit and talk—so she'd moved it off to one side and then arranged the couches into a conversational 'L' in the far corner of the room. The arrangement was a bit cramped but workable, she hoped.

Remy said nothing, the fingers of his free hand trailing lightly across the furniture as he cemented the location of each piece in his mind. When they'd finished, he collected the scotch from her and collapsed on the nearest couch. He opened the bottle and poured himself a generous glass, managing not to spill any of the amber liquid. As Rogue watched, he downed it and poured a second.

"Go back t' bed, Rogue," he said without looking at her. "I ain't gon' be any kind o' company tonight."

She pressed her tongue against the inside of her cheek then shook her head. "Only if ya comin' with me."

He shrugged. "Suit y'self."

Feeling awkward, Rogue sat down beside him and drew her knees up to her chest. Remy didn't react to her presence. Instead, he stared into the distance as he sipped his drink. She didn't know what to make of his demeanor until it dawned on her that this was exactly how he was whenever he went to the mansion's roof to brood. But it had been a long time since she'd seen him do that.

Sighing softly, she stood and went around the back of the couch. Slipping her hands beneath the collar of his duster, she began to massage the tense, knotted muscles of his back and neck. He closed his eyes. The minutes passed in silence, broken only by the muted rustle of cloth as she worked her way along his shoulders.

"I can't do dis," he said suddenly.

Rogue froze, terrified that he might be talking about them, their relationship. "Can't do what?" she finally asked.

He gestured vaguely with his glass, setting the scotch in it to swirling. "Dis—any of it. Leading a guild, fightin' OZT…" He shook his head. "I don't know what I was t'inking. They asked an' I said yes wit'out really considerin' whether I was even qualified f' de job."

Rogue stared down at him, thoroughly shocked. Remy was always so confident—even to the point of arrogance sometimes. This kind of self-doubt wasn't like him at all. She ran a hand through his hair, as much to comfort herself as him. Or maybe it was, and she'd just never seen it because she'd never been willing to look closely enough, or honestly enough. Maybe that was what she'd really envied Bobby for—the ability to look unflinchingly into the heart of this man and accept whatever he found there.

But, no more. She was done with running away.

She dropped a kiss on the top of Remy's head. "Sugah, from where ah'm standin' it seems like ya've done an amazin' job. Most of us would be dead right now if it wasn't foh you—the Guild an' the X-Men both. An' there wouldn't even _be_ a resistance."

He tipped his head to the side, resting it against her arm. "Warren could've died yesterday," he went on as if he hadn't heard her. "Because o' me. Because I got… distracted." He ran his hand along the outside of her arm, his touch sending warm, tingling sensations all the way up to her shoulder. He caught her hand and brought it to his mouth, kissing her fingers. But it was an apologetic gesture, and Rogue felt a weight of dismay coalesce in her stomach. She'd been trying not to think about the fact that Warren had been shot while they were making love. She didn't want that memory to be tainted with guilt for having been so happy while such terrible things were happening.

"That ain't ya fault either," she told him.

His fingers tightened on hers. "But I could've stopped it. I should've—should've noticed what was goin' on."

The utterly self-pitying comment triggered Rogue's sense of the absurd. "Well now ya sound exactly like Scott," she said with a snort and felt him jerk in surprise.

He straightened. "Dat was unkind, chere." But there was a note of dry humor in his voice.

Somewhat reassured, she disentangled herself from his grip and came back around the couch. She held out her hands. "Come ta bed, sugah."

For a moment he didn't move. Then, sighing tiredly, he set his glass aside and let her pull him to his feet. "D'accord."

Silently, Rogue led him to the bed. Turning out the light, she shucked her robe and waited patiently in the darkness as he shed his clothes and slipped beneath the covers. Then she climbed in beside him and wrapped her arms around him, laying her head on his chest. His arms closed around her after a minute and he sighed again, this time sounding nearly content.

Rogue listened to the slow, steady thumping of his heart, taking comfort in the sound. "Tomorrow'll be better, sugah. Just wait an' see."

His response was an unintelligible murmur and a gentle squeeze. Rogue smiled in the darkness. Tomorrow _would_ be better. They'd make it so. Together.

On that heartening thought, Rogue closed her eyes and let sleep take her. 


	40. Chapter 40

Chapter 40

Remy stared out the aircraft window as the Guild jet touched down at a private airport on the outskirts of Chicago. He could see nothing of the world beyond, but it served as a convenient direction for his gaze while his thoughts turned. Across from him, Bobby straightened in his seat and Remy saw him wince.

"Ribs still botherin' y'?" Remy asked. The assassin's bullet had cut a long, shallow gash across his ribcage. Bobby had been managing well enough during their two-a-day practice runs through the Maze, but that was no longer a clear indicator of how much pain he might be in. The young thief wasn't as transparent as he'd once been.

Bobby shook his head. "Not the ribs." A faint note of humor lit his voice. "It's the road rash, actually."

Remy had to grin. He'd suffered a few of those—one of the downsides of riding a motorcycle. But at least Bobby had been wearing leather.

The jet turned off the runway, bouncing as it taxied across the seams in the pavement. Remy's amusement faded. Tension coiled in his gut, twisting tighter and tighter the closer they got to their goal.

"So now do I get to ask what we're doing here?" Bobby said as the jet began to slow. There was concern rather than aggravation in his voice, and Remy was once again struck by what a remarkable man Bobby had turned out to be. He could never have guessed what impact that one decision—made on a whim because the longing in the boy's eyes that day had evoked such an echo in his own heart—would have.

Remy shook his head. "Non." It was quite likely pointless to refuse. Bobby was smart enough to figure things out for himself. He knew Remy had kept the information about Adrian's involvement in the shooting inside the X-Men, telling the Guild only that the OZT assassin had gotten hold of one of the golden passcards. Just as he knew that he was with Remy today because of what he'd witnessed. But Remy wasn't ready to commit any of his thoughts to words, particularly in front of one of the few people in the world whose good opinion mattered to him.

Bobby shrugged. "Okay."

Eventually the jet rolled to a stop. The attendant went forward to open the door and lower the stairs. A rush of cold, clammy air filled the interior of the aircraft. Remy could hear the hiss of rain on the tarmac.

He stood and picked up his wool overcoat. Slipping it on over his suit, he gestured for Bobby to precede him out of the plane. They disembarked in silence. Remy turned up his collar against the rain and heard the distinctive sounds as Bobby opened an umbrella.

A short distance away, Remy could see a single figure standing beside a parked car. Like people, engines had their own heat signature and though this one was rapidly cooling in the Chicago air, Remy identified it as belonging to a newer, high-end Mercedes.

Malcolm Lotho nodded in greeting as the two New York thieves approached.

"Guildmaster." Remy returned the nod, his unease hidden behind a solemn mask. He was grateful for the rain, despite his discomfort. It would interfere with any kind of sound amplifying equipment that might be pointed their way.

"Remy," Lotho returned. He hunched his shoulders against the rain then glanced toward Bobby. Remy could imagine the curious lift to his eyebrows. "So, you have something you wanted to discuss?"

Remy nodded. "Got a problem I don' know how t' solve." He gestured to the man beside him. "Bobby, would y' please tell Guildmaster Lotho everyt'ing from de time I asked y' t' keep an eye on Adrian?"

Lotho's heat signature immediately spiked. "You put a tail on one of your own council members?" he demanded.

Remy throttled a burst of irritation. "Listen before y' judge, neh?" He indicated Bobby should go ahead.

Bobby cleared his throat, his signature betraying a quiver of nervousness, then launched into a concise but detailed account of the events that had led to Warren's shooting nearly a week earlier. At the appropriate time, he dug the photos Jubilee had taken out of his coat and handed them to the senior Guildmaster.

Lotho flipped through them, his heat signature rising and falling in increasingly high frequency surges as Bobby's narration progressed.

Once Bobby finished, Remy thanked him quietly and sent him back to the jet. Lotho continue to examine the photos, the silence unbroken except for the sound of the rain.

"You can't link this Garbo to OZT definitively?" Lotho finally asked.

Remy shook his head. "Non, an' dat's after askin' Colonel Fury t' look into it, too. Garbo must be workin' freelance."

Lotho's heat signature went through a range of colors before settling. "I'd heard SHIELD was protecting Worthington," he finally commented. "What about the shooter?"

"Kazakhstani, entered the country illegally. He has ties to t' Russian intelligence, an' rumor has it he was on loan t' another agency. No one could say f' sure which one."

Lotho cocked his head, and Remy could feel the intensity of his stare. "Is it possible this _wasn't_ OZT?"

Remy shook his head. "I've been watchin' Worthington Industries f' several years now. Warren doesn' have dat kind o' enemy outside OZT."

Lotho heaved a sigh and let his hands fall to his sides. "What are you looking for, Remy?" he asked wearily.

The knot of tension in Remy gut pulled taut. "If I let Adrian run loose, he's gon' sell de X-Men out t' OZT. He's already proven he's willin' t' go dat far."

Lotho raised the handful of pictures. "There's not enough here to call him into the ring." He looked away. "Not after the mess with Rogue, anyway."

Remy said nothing. The schism his relationship with Rogue had caused within the Guild would only polarize further if he were to take any direct action against Adrian, particularly on flimsy evidence. He waited silently, letting the other Guildmaster work his way through the alternatives.

Finally, Lotho seemed to reach a conclusion. He continued to stare out over the rain-drenched airport, his breath forming warm puffs in front of his face. "You'll have to handle it outside the Guild."

The tight coil in Remy's stomach gave one last high-tension quiver and then released. He had his confirmation. "Oui."

Lotho adjusted his coat. "Don't mess this up. If it comes back to bite you, there won't be a thing I can do."

Remy nodded. "I understand."

Without another word, Lotho walked over to his car and got in. Remy turned on his heel and headed back toward the jet, eager to get out of the rain. He needed a cigarette.

#-#-#-#

"Are you sure you're up for this?" Scott asked Warren as one of WI's media people put the finishing touches on the other's blonde hair. Warren looked pale and drawn even with makeup, his odd blue complexion made all the worse for its unhealthy gray cast.

Warren glanced up at him. "I'll manage. We really can't afford to push the schedule back any further—the information will leak eventually." The stylist stepped back and Warren carefully rose to his feet. "Besides, I'm only going to make a statement."

Scott reached over to brace his old friend with a hand beneath the elbow. Warren gave him a tight smile, his furled wings twitching for balance as he took a couple of unsteady steps.

A mischievous twinkle lit Warren's blue eyes. "Are you sure you don't want to toss on that spiffy new uniform and go on camera with me? Guaranteed front page coverage."

Scott snorted, tempted. Gambit and Bobby had returned from Four Freedoms Plaza a couple of days earlier with the equipment Richards had promised them. The uniforms were nice, he had to admit. Done primarily in black, but with red accents personalized to each individual X-Man, the armored body suits were versatile and far less bulky than he'd expected. And each had the red X emblem that had become the recognized symbol of both the X-Men and the resistance emblazoned over the right breast.

Finally, he shook his head. "It would only muddy the waters. We want people talking about the lawsuit, not the X-Men. At least at first."

A woman in a stylish business suit and wearing a wireless headset stuck her head into the room. "Five minutes, Mr. Worthington," she said. Warren acknowledged her with a wave.

"That's my cue," he said.

Scott gestured for Warren to precede him. "After you."

Warren took a couple of steps toward the door. He seemed to have gained his footing. His wings lay quietly on his back, feathers rustling softly as he moved.

He glanced over his shoulder at Scott as the two reached the doorway. "So, have you kissed and made up with Remy yet?"

Scott scowled at his longtime friend. "Why is everyone making such a big deal out of this?"

"I take it Jean's been after you, too?" Warren asked with a curious lift to his eyebrows.

"Jean, Logan, Ororo…" He was getting tired of the question—tired of trying to defend his opinion, and irritated that no one else seemed interested in holding Gambit the least bit responsible for the near-death of an X-Man.

Warren shrugged as the two men started down the hallway that led to the media area. "Betsy told me it's making people nervous, but it sounds like things are even more unsettled than she said."

Scott stopped short, taken aback. He'd felt the general sense of unease surrounding his team but had attributed it to the upcoming mission, not to the current tension between himself and Gambit.

"Why would anyone care?" he finally asked in consternation. "Remy and I have never gotten along."

Warren chuckled. "You know, for someone with as many leadership skills as you have, you can be incredibly dense sometimes."

Scott's chest tightened as a burst of anger flashed through him. The last thing he needed was yet another person criticizing him. His lips thinned. "Fine. Explain it to me."

Warren heaved a sigh, wincing at a pain in his chest. "Think about it, Scott. Ever since the G—" he paused ruefully, "—Remy's organization took us in, you and he have been working together to turn all of us into an effective resistance force. Which you've done, I might add." He studied Scott for a moment, his expression piercing. "I don't think you realize just how well you and Gambit function as a sort of organic co-leadership. You're Operations, he's Logistics." He made an encompassing gesture. "And we all take a fair amount of security from knowing how sound the command structure is."

Scott could only stare at the other man as the meaning of his words sank in. Dismay followed. One of the most basic tenets of command was that you never let divisions in the leadership show. You always presented a united front.

Warren went on. "The fact that you're being completely unreasonable about this isn't helping matters. It's not like Remy hasn't admitted he made a mistake, but you're acting like he pulled the trigger."

Scott had to look away from the disapproval in his friend's eyes. He knew he was being unfair. Gambit had done an awful lot of things right, too. And even the things Scott felt most angry about—Warren's shooting, Rogue's torture—weren't strictly Remy's fault. If he were honest with himself, he knew Remy wouldn't have let either happen if he'd had the power to prevent them.

He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Okay. I get the point." He suspected it was the fact that Remy _didn't_ have that kind of power—the power to guarantee the safety of the people who meant most to Scott—that he blamed the thief for.

Warren nodded. "That's all I can ask." He turned and continued down the hall, leaving Scott no choice but to follow.

The woman who'd given them the five minute warning opened the door at the far end of the hall just as they reached it. "Mr. Worthington, they're ready for you," she said, holding the door open for them.

Warren nodded in acknowledgment as he stepped past her into the controlled chaos of the area backstage of the WI media room. Scott found himself an inobtrusive place from which to watch as Warren was whisked away toward the stage by a trio of media people.

A few moments later, Warren stepped out into the bright spotlights. Scott heard the sudden surge of voices and the whir of dozens of camera shutters. From his vantage in the shadow of the heavy stage curtains, he saw Warren walk carefully up to the podium. Bracing himself with one hand, Warren raised the other in a call for silence.

Slowly the room quieted.

"Members of the press, thank you for coming today," Warren began as the assembled journalists finished settling in their seats. "I have a statement to make, and then I'll answer a few questions."

The whir of the cameras continued, the strobe of their flashes nearly lost in the bright stage lighting. "As you are aware, eight days ago an attempt was made on my life. That attempt failed, obviously. The identity of the assassin is still under investigation by the authorities, and I am not at liberty to discuss any of the particulars." He looked around the room. "That's not why I asked you here."

Warren paused to take a couple of breaths, and Scott could feel the electric current of curiosity running through the room. "Today I am filing a lawsuit in U.S. District Court against Draxar, Incorporated, a known front company for Operation: Zero Tolerance, and against the United States government, for the attempted illegal seizure of Worthington Industries' assets." A speculative murmur started up among the journalists as Warren went on to outline some salient points about the suit.

Warren finished his statement, and the room exploded into noise and motion. The journalists were on their feet, hands raised and shouting questions. Scott could only shake his head. He'd been involved in a few press conferences, and without fail he'd found them intimidating. But at least Warren's shooting had had one significant benefit: there were far more reporters in the room than they'd originally expected. The story would make headlines for certain.

Warren didn't seem to have any trouble handling the crowd. He seemed completely at ease as he accepted questions, calling many of the journalists by name.

_There's no turning back now_, Scott thought as the weight of his responsibility seemed to settle more heavily on his shoulders. The lawsuit was the first domino in their planned offensive against OZT. Once it fell, they were committed to going forward.

He leaned out just far enough to let him see the first few rows of the audience. He wasn't terribly surprised to see Trish Tilby front and center. In a few days the X-Men would be putting her life in jeopardy in the hopes of breaking open OZT's public face.

Scott's gaze drifted back to Warren. _Let's just hope it's worth it._

#-#-#-#

"You in the dog house?"

Remy swam up out of soft, sleepy darkness at the sound of Scott's voice. "Huh?" He cracked an eye to find Scott standing over him, arms crossed, and he blinked, trying to orient himself.

Scott cocked his head, his heat signature betraying curiosity and amusement. "I asked if you were in the dog house." He gestured toward the black leather sofa Remy had stretched out on. "Why else would you be sleeping on the couch?"

The comment startled Remy into a grin. He sat up, yawning, and swung his legs over the side of the sofa. "Non," he told the other man as he tried to massage the stiffness out of his neck. "No dog house." He looked up at Scott from under his eyebrows, unable to resist teasing him. "Y' really let Jean chase y' out of y' own bed, homme?"

Scott's tone soured. "She's a telepath and a telekinetic. Sometimes it's safer."

Remy laughed at that, and waved Scott toward the other couch. "I'll bet." He had no idea what to make of the other's sudden friendliness, but he wasn't going to argue. Hopefully it meant Scott was ready to give up his grudge over Warren's shooting and the whole mess was about to blow over.

Scott settled across from him and laid his arms across the back of the couch. "So, if you're not fighting with Rogue, what are you doing sleeping out here? It's almost 8:00am."

"Didn't say I wasn't avoidin' her," Remy allowed after a moment. Scott's heat signature flared with surprise and he added, "Jus' needed t' get some sleep."

"What, does she snore?"

Remy snorted in amusement. "No."

That apparently wasn't going to be enough of an answer for the X-Men's field leader. "And?" he asked.

Remy chuckled. This was an odd conversation to be having with Scott, but he always enjoyed the chance to make the other man uncomfortable. "De woman only recently discovered sex," he explained with a grin, "so no, I ain' gettin' much sleep." And he couldn't remember a time when he'd had more fun. His smile widened at the faint blush that stained the other's signature. "She's like a lil' kid in a candy store."

"Okay, that was a visual I did not need," Scott said dryly.

Remy only smirked at him. Scott made an irritated noise, but it didn't have much real emotion behind it. The silence stretched comfortably between them.

Finally, Scott sat forward and braced his elbows on his knees. "Well, I wasn't expecting to find you about this early, but since I've got you, there was something I wanted talk to you about." His voice and signature had gone solemn, and Remy tensed, his earlier amusement dying. He waited for the other to continue.

"I just finished finalizing the mission schedule with Logan and Ororo, so all that leaves is making sure you've done something to insure Adr—"

Remy held up a quick hand to forestall him, his gut clenching. "Don't say it, mon ami," he warned Scott quietly. Saying things aloud always meant someone, somewhere might overhear, despite how often he swept his office for bugs. "It's taken care of."

"How?"

Remy shook his head. "You don' want t' know, an' I ain't gon' tell y'." He watched as Scott absorbed his words, the colors of his heat signature shifting uneasily.

"All right," Scott finally agreed. "I guess that'll have to be good enough." There was a faint sarcastic edge to his voice.

Remy looked at him askance, debating what to say, or if it was worthwhile to try to say anything.

Scott seemed to follow the direction of his thoughts. The infrared colors that made up his heat signature flared bright with embarrassment and anger.

"I was really pissed that OZT was able to get to us like that," he said suddenly.

Remy blinked a bit at the outburst. "Can't blame y'," he allowed after a minute.

Scott rubbed his palms together, obviously disturbed. "It's just that Warren and I practically grew up together. We were there at the very beginning—part of the original five." He shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. I guess I just wasn't ready to almost lose him."

Remy shoved himself to his feet. "I t'ink dis conversation is gon' require some alcohol," he muttered. He was entirely too coherent to be having a heart to heart with Scott Summers.

Scott looked up sharply. "It's first thing in the morning."

"Fine, I'll pour it in de coffee."

Scott's heat signature shifted abruptly and he chuckled. "And people say _I_ have issues."

Shaking his head, Remy went to start the coffee machine.

"Okay, next order of business," Scott said while Remy was scooping grounds into the filter. "I talked to Reed for awhile yesterday about where we go from here, assuming this op goes off as planned."

"Oh?"

"I asked him if there was any way he could get us into space."

Remy set the coffee pot down and turned around. It only took him a second to figure out where Scott was going. "Guess dat is de endgame, ain't it," he said softly. It really didn't matter how much they accomplished against OZT—it wouldn't be over until the satellites were destroyed. "What'd he say?"

"Give him a couple of months."

Remy raised one eyebrow. "Really?"

Scott nodded, and Remy felt the first stirrings of excitement. Being able to put a name to the goal made it seem more attainable. "What about de Professor?"

Scott's heat signature ran through a cascade of colors too fast for Remy to follow. "We know he's up there somewhere. If we can just get our powers back—" He broke off and pounded a fist lightly on his knee.

"One step at a time, mon ami." Remy turned back to the coffee maker. None of them could afford to think too far into the future, lest they lose track of the present. "One step at a time."

#-#-#-#

Jubilee tugged uncomfortably at her skirt as she walked down the sidewalk. _Ugh, ugh, ugh. I hate these things._ Her thoughts pounded in time with her footsteps. _How did I ever let Gambit talk me into this?_

She snorted loudly. "Yeah, right," she answered herself aloud. "A seriously hot guy shows up in your bedroom in the middle of the night asking for a favor, and you're going to say no?"

A woman walking past Jubilee going the other direction looked at her oddly. Jubilee pasted on a bright, slightly manic smile and the woman quickly looked away. Jubilee chuckled and walked on.

_Even if he is taken_, she added resignedly She'd nearly fallen off her chair when Logan told her Remy and Rogue had gotten married. Granted, they'd been going out for a long time, but she'd never taken Gambit for the marrying kind. Belledonna notwithstanding.

Besides, there was something just _not right_ about daydreaming about a married guy. She huffed a sigh. It was depressing.

Two blocks down, she spied the restaurant. A red awning with the words _Il Dolce_ in stylish gold lettering fluttered in the mid-afternoon breeze. Her stomach did a little twirl as Gambit's words came back to her.

_Walk in like y' belong there, petite. De man y' want t' talk to will be sittin' at de last table on de left. He'll have bodyguards. Don' let dem scare y'._

She summoned a smile. After Bastion and his prime sentinels, a couple of bodyguards weren't going to be very scary. Taking a deep breath, she turned into the restaurant.

It turned out to be a confectionary. The interior smelled like powdered sugar, and the décor looked like it had come from an old-fashioned diner. A glass case along one wall contained cakes and pies and about twenty different types of ice cream in round, brown cardboard cartons. An older man stood behind the counter, his apron dusted with flour and sugar. He gave Jubilee a surprisingly unfriendly look as she stepped inside.

There were only a few patrons in the restaurant. Jubilee paused as the door swung shut behind her, searching for the proper table. She found it easily. The man seated at the table was huge and bald. He wore a white summer-weight suit and a matching fedora sat on the table beside him. He was eating an immense ice cream sundae. Two beefy men with guns holstered beneath their sports coats stood in front of the table, partially blocking her view.

Jubilee swallowed a squeak of surprise as she recognized the man. Gambit had sent her to see the _Kingpin_? If he hadn't said it was a matter of life and death, she would have turned around and walked out right then. But she was an X-Man, and X-Men didn't run away when people's lives were at stake.

Taking a deep, bracing breath, Jubilee squared her shoulders and marched toward the Kingpin's table. The two bodyguards watched her approach with a mixture of wariness and amusement.

_Don' try to push past de bodyguards,_ Gambit's instructions echoed in her mind. _They'd kill y' before y' gone two steps._

Jubilee stopped in front of the two men, both of whom towered over her by a good foot and a half and probably weighed three times as much as she did.

"Um, hi," she began and then mentally kicked herself. She tugged nervously at her skirt. "I have a message for your boss."

"A message from who?" one of the bodyguards asked. Behind him, the Kingpin continued to eat his ice cream as if nothing were happening.

Jubilee forced herself not to fidget. "I was told that if your boss could identify me, he would know who sent me." Gambit had been emphatic that under no circumstances was she to use any of the X-Men's names or say anything that hinted at their identities. She'd thought it sounded kind of freakily paranoid when he said it. Now, it seemed much more reasonable.

The Kingpin looked up, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of her standing there. She'd left her X-Men bandana at home today, and instead opted for a bright yellow one. But then he nodded to his bodyguards.

One of the men motioned for Jubilee to hold her arms out to her sides. She complied, and only barely managed to contain an indignant squawk at the thorough search. Gambit had warned her about that, too.

Once the bodyguard finished, he stepped aside to allow her to approach the Kingpin's table. With an involuntary glance at the second man, Jubilee did so.

The Kingpin licked his spoon and gestured to the chair across the table from him. "Would you like some ice cream?" he asked in a surprisingly friendly voice. Before she could answer he turned and called to the man behind the counter, "Mario, bring this young lady some ice cream."

"Uh… sure," Jubilee agreed without enthusiasm. Her stomach was doing so many somersaults there was a good chance she would spew all over the Kingpin's white suit if she ate anything.

Mario nodded and turned toward the glass cases. Jubilee watched him for a moment then forced her attention back to the Kingpin, but the Kingpin had gone back to eating and didn't seem to be paying her any attention. She bit her lip, impatient to give the man his message and get out of there.

But, _Keep quiet an' let him ask de questions_, Remy had said. So she pressed her lips firmly together and kicked her feet under the table as she waited.

_Gambit is _so_ going to owe me,_ she thought fiercely as she watched the Kingpin spoon ice cream into his fleshy mouth.

Mario came by after a minute with a stemmed glass bowl filled with three scoops of strawberry ice cream, which he set in front of her along with a spoon. Hesitantly, Jubilee picked up the spoon and took a bite.

"Wow, that's really good." It wasn't gooey sweet like most ice cream, but tasted like real strawberries.

"Mario here makes the world's best ice cream." The Kingpin dropped his spoon in his nearly-empty bowl with a clatter and leaned back in his chair, lacing his hands across his broad stomach. "Now, I believe you have a message for me?"

Jubilee's gut clenched. "Oh, right." She set her spoon down on the table and reached into the back pocket of her denim skirt, withdrawing a folded photograph. It was actually only half of a photograph—one that Jubilee herself had taken—and she wondered yet again what it had all been about. Bobby had been uncommonly serious, too, when he'd asked for her help.

She laid the photograph down, still folded, and slid it across to the Kingpin. "I'm supposed to tell you that the man your out-of-town friend is looking for is named Adrian Tyre." Gambit had made her memorize this part. "He's not going to be easy to find because of OZT but there are a couple of places to start looking." She listed off three addresses in the New York area.

The Kingpin arched his bushy eyebrows as she spoke, and she got the distinct feeling he was startled. But the surprised expression disappeared immediately to be replaced with a frown. He picked up the photo and studied it.

"Very well," he finally said. He waved dismissively, and Jubilee scrambled to her feet, though not before taking another bite of her ice cream. The Kingpin looked up at her, the intensity of his stare halting her in her tracks. "Tell the one that sent you he's playing a dangerous game." He raised the photo. "But I will pass on the message."

Jubilee nodded uncertainly, her stomach turning sour at the implied threat in his tone. "Yeah, okay," she agreed, simply wanting to get out of there. Gambit had told her never to mention this little meeting to anyone, himself included.

The Kingpin made another of those dismissive waves, and Jubilee nearly ran out of the shop. Once she was out on the sidewalk, she had to take a couple of deep breaths to ward off the queasy feeling in her stomach. Then she headed back the way she'd come with quick strides.


	41. Chapter 41

Chapter 41

Adrian Tyre paced restlessly across his living room. The same question had been eating at him for more than a week, and he was running out of time to make a decision.

_What was LeBeau planning?_

His entire future hinged on the answer to that question. The Guild continued to buzz with questions about the penetration of Worthington Industries' security. Predictably, LeBeau had spun the facts to minimize the damage to himself, confirming only that one of the golden passcards had been used to bypass the security system. Most people assumed the breach had been on Worthington's side, and LeBeau had done nothing to disabuse them of that notion.

Exactly as Adrian had expected him to. No doubt the Guildmaster had a very good idea when and how he'd lost his card. Just as he would naturally suspect Adrian was involved, even if he had no proof. But the knowledge was useless to LeBeau because he couldn't voice his suspicions without admitting he'd fallen prey to a simple pickpocketing. Something the third ranked Master Thief in the world couldn't afford to do.

Coming to the edge of the room, Adrian pivoted sharply. No, the question was what he might be planning to do about it. If anything.

A knock at the door interrupted his musings. He went to answer it, and wasn't terribly surprised to find Carson on the far side. The thief had finally returned from Florida two days earlier, tanned and bringing with him gifts from the Guildmaster of Miami as a token of that Guild's gratitude for New York's help.

Adrian opened the door and stepped back as Carson came inside. They shook hands, and Carson's expression sharpened.

"You look frustrated."

Adrian shrugged, turning away. He hadn't said anything to the other man about the steps he was taking to get rid of LeBeau once and for all, and didn't intend to. He trusted Carson as much as he trusted anyone, but some things could never be said aloud.

"I'm getting tired of being the only person who sees catastrophe on the horizon," he said after a moment.

Carson sank onto the couch with a sigh. "The council doesn't have much choice right now but to back the Guildmaster. He may be crazy and dangerous, but he's getting things done. Until he fails--and fails spectacularly--that's not going to change."

Adrian grimaced. The affair with Rogue was supposed to be that failure. More than embarrassing LeBeau, it had shattered the rock star-like mystique surrounding the man and made him out to be a liar willing to betray his own Guild for the sake of a woman. It should have been an unrecoverable blunder. But who could have predicted the lengths to which Rogue would go in order to protect him?

Adrian returned to his pacing. "We can always hope we'll get lucky and he and the X-Men will fail themselves into an early grave with this mission of theirs."

There was the crux of his dilemma. It was quite possible LeBeau would get himself killed in the next few days without any assistance from him. But if he didn't…

Adrian shook his head subconsciously. If he didn't, and the X-Men actually pulled off an attack on a sentinels final assembly plant, LeBeau's hold on the Guild would once again be unshakable.

Carson watched him pace, a narrow crease between his pale brows. Adrian ignored him. What could LeBeau be planning? He was certain the Guildmaster had not confided in even his most ardent supporters on the council. He would have been able to tell. And his people who worked in the Guild's communications center had tracked every call LeBeau made or received. He hadn't made any suspicious contacts, and as far as Adrian could tell, his only trips outside had been to Worthington Industries. He couldn't guarantee the Guildmaster hadn't made any additional stops, but if he had, he'd kept it quiet. _Very_ quiet. Like any good thief, Adrian kept feelers out across the city and beyond, and LeBeau had tripped none of them.

All that left was the X-Men. Most of them were do-gooders who wouldn't lower themselves to helping LeBeau plot murder. Drake, of course, was the Guildmaster's creature all the way. Adrian didn't think there was anything he wouldn't do if LeBeau asked it of him. The Wolverine, too, was a possibility. As was Worthington's girlfriend. But, though any of them might have been willing to help LeBeau… had they? He didn't think Drake or Logan could have done much without someone in the Guild noticing. Drake was young and inexperienced, still, and though Wolverine might be many things—all of them dangerous—subtle he was not.

Worthington's woman—the purple-haired ninja—had plenty of opportunity, but she was far more conspicuous than either of the others.

All of it pointed to the possibility that LeBeau wasn't planning anything. That despite what he knew, or thought he knew, he had been left with no room to maneuver and was powerless to prevent Adrian from selling his life right out from under him. Which was exactly what Adrian had intended when he started on this course. But now that he'd reached the decision point, his doubts nagged at him.

He could simply do nothing and let the chips fall where they may. The X-Men could fail. LeBeau could end up dead in an OZT installation in the back woods of Virginia. That was the safe choice.

Adrian snorted softly to himself. No, safe choices were for those too weak or afraid to take hold of everything life offered. Not for him.

"You okay?" Carson asked from his place on the couch.

Adrian looked up and found himself smiling. "I'm good," he assured his friend.

#-#-#-#

"An' if ya would just listen ta me for one second--!" Rogue's hands balled into fists at her sides.

Remy's gaze narrowed. "I am listenin', chere. I jus' don't agree."

From his position on the far side of the Guildmaster's massive desk, Scott could see the bunched muscle in Remy's jaw as the couple glared at each other. It was the second spat of the morning, and he could tell the other man's patience was wearing thin.

"Then ya bein' an idiot!" Rogue jabbed her husband in the chest with one finger.

Scott saw Remy's temper snap. "All right, dat's it." He grabbed her hand, twisting it away in a disarming motion. Had she been holding a weapon, she would have been forced to drop it. "I ain' sure what's goin' on wit' you today, but cut it out."

Rogue gasped, two white spots appearing on her cheeks. She yanked her hand out of his grasp, her green eyes shining with angry tears.

"Fine." Whirling away, she stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind her for good measure.

For a moment, no one moved. Then Wolverine grunted. "She's in a mood this mornin'."

Remy heaved a sigh and shook his head. "Feel like I'm in a time warp," he muttered.

The various guildmembers in the office remained frozen, their expressions owlish. But, Scott reflected, they'd probably never witnessed an argument between these two. He couldn't imagine how they would react to the kind of full-blown—and occasionally full-powers—fights the X-Men had had front-row seats for.

Scott's lips twisted in a sour smile. "Guess the honeymoon had to end some time," he said in an undertone. Wolverine made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

Scott sobered. Unfortunately, today was a really bad day for Rogue to pick to revert. In less than twenty-four hours they would be on board the Blackbird, headed for Virginia and the prime sentinels manufacturing facility.

He paused, struck by a sudden thought. With a nod to Logan, he left what he was doing and headed out of the office.

He found Rogue in the school, trying to muscle one end of a rolled up carpet out into the middle of one of the classrooms from its former position up against one wall. It was Saturday so class wasn't in session, and in the remarkable quiet of the empty caverns he could clearly hear Rogue muttering angrily under her breath.

Scott stopped in the doorway. Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned one shoulder against the rough stone.

"So," he said after a few moments, "are you going to be able to handle this?"

Rogue dropped the carpet with a startled exclamation. She straightened and planted her hands on her hips. "Am ah gonna be able ta handle what?" she demanded.

Scott didn't let her sharp tone faze him. "Going into a combat situation with your husband."

Rogue jerked and he heard her suck in her breath in a hiss. "Are ya questionin' mah professionalism?"

Scott raised his eyebrows. "Yeah, I guess I am," he answered in a matter-of-fact tone.

Rogue's gaze darkened dangerously. She opened her mouth for a retort, but before Scott could do more than brace himself, she abruptly closed it again.

She turned her head away, moistening her lips. "We've been fightin' together foh almost four years, sugah. Ah'll handle it like ah always have."

"Things have changed, Rogue."

"Doesn't matter." She wouldn't look at him.

Scott stroked his chin, debating how had to push. Finally, he straightened. "Okay, I'm just going to lay this out," he said. He had to make sure he got through to her. His responsibility had to be to his team first.

Rogue glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, but didn't move.

"So here's the deal," Scott continued. "Gambit's the key to getting us into this sentinels plant, and my understanding is that we're pushing the limit of even his skills. So, in as much as whatever's going on with you is going to mess with him, it needs to stop."

She was silent for nearly a minute. Scott watched her, waiting for some kind of acknowledgment--some kind of confirmation that she'd understood.

"How do you do it?" Rogue asked suddenly. She turned to face him, but her gaze fastened on the floor near his feet. "All these years ya been with Jean. How do you go on mission after mission, knowin' somethin' could happen to her?"

A familiar knot lodged in his stomach at the question, bringing with it the stale taste of remembered fear. Part of him hated the fact that Jean insisted on fighting with the X-Men, even as the rest of him loved her fiercely for her courage and her willingness to put her life on the line for the sake of others.

He took a cautious step forward into the room. "I can't let myself think of Jean as my wife whenever we're on a mission," he told her. "If I did, I couldn't make rational decisions." He took another step and deliberately lightened his tone. "Besides, she'd never forgive me if I tried to make her stay at home."

Rogue wrapped her arms around herself as if warding off a chill. Her gaze darted upward to Scott's and then away. "Remy gets so mad at me when ah try ta protect him."

Scott nodded. He'd seen that particular scenario play out any number of times and he understood Gambit's frustration with her. "It comes across as disrespect—like you don't think he can take care of himself."

Rogue hunched her shoulders. "Ah know." She stared at her toes, and he saw her swallow hard. "Ah feel like ah can't breathe." She shot him a look filled with quiet desperation. "Ah don't think ah can go back ta bein' alone again—"

With quick strides, Scott crossed the space separating them and drew her into an awkward hug. She remained rigid in his grasp, and his heart went out to her. "Remy's got an uncanny talent for staying alive," he said after a moment.

She didn't react, and after a moment he stepped back, gripping her by both shoulders. "I understand your fear, Rogue. I really do. But I meant what I said—you've got to be able to get a grip on this, lock it away inside somewhere, or you'll become a liability to the team. And on this mission we just don't have any margin for error."

Rogue chewed on her lip, her gaze distant, but eventually she nodded. He could see her pulling herself together by degrees. "Okay, Cyke." She raised her head, meeting his gaze directly for the first time that morning. "Ah hear ya. I'll—" Her expression wavered just for a moment before settling into a kind of hard resolve. "I'll cope."

Scott summoned a smile. "That's all I can ask."

#-#-#-#

Adrian slipped out of the complex just after noon. He knew he was cutting it close, time-wise, but it had taken longer than he expected to make contact with OZT. After Worthington's shooting Garbo's superiors had taken notice as Adrian intended, but the result was an added layer of red tape.

The delay worked to Adrian's advantage in some ways. Because of the narrow window, there would be little opportunity for OZT to investigate the source of the information. They would be too busy moving on it. And once LeBeau was dead, Adrian had every intention of evaporating into the wind as far as OZT was concerned. With the X-Men gone, the Guild could go back to what it was supposed to be doing and get out of the hero business.

It was a beautiful day, he noted wryly. Probably the last warm weekend of the year. The trees that lined this particular street were in the later stages of color, their leaves a riotous mottling of reds and yellows. A number had already fallen on the sidewalk and crunched beneath his shoes as he walked. The smell of roasted peanuts drifted from the direction of Central Park, making his stomach rumble.

Adrian kept a watchful eye on the people moving about him. It would be ironic if his plans came to naught because of a random encounter with a prime sentinel. Primarily, though, he kept his senses peeled for the assassin common sense told him LeBeau could still have waiting for him. Whoever it was, it would be quick, subtle and very quiet because LeBeau could not afford to have word get back to the Guild.

A man approaching from the opposite direction caught his attention. He was of Hispanic descent, with his dark, wavy hair slicked back and his cheeks pockmarked with old acne scars. He trailed behind a couple of Latino gang-bangers dressed in baggy jeans, wife-beaters and copious tattoos, nearly invisible in the shadow of their loud, overtly aggressive presence on the sidewalk. He had a predatory grace to him that set Adrian's internal alarms to ringing.

Adrian readied himself, gauging the remaining distance between himself and the other man. The fingers of his right hand flexed instinctively, itching for the knife strapped to his forearm in a drop-down sheath. He carried a 40 Smith & Wesson in a shoulder holster as well, but the gun would draw far more attention than he wanted. The assassin would wait for him to pick a side on which to pass around the two gang-bangers before making his move. He would probably expect Adrian to pass on the right-hand side, which was instinctive for most Americans.

Adrian aimed his steps directly toward the gang members, who sized him up with a matched pair of arrogant grins as they sauntered along. The gold chains around their necks glinted in the bright sunlight. At the last moment, Adrian side-stepped to the left, twisting his body as slipped around the pair to put himself at a better angle on his target. The knife dropped into his hand.

He realized his mistake just a fraction of a second too late. The man with the slicked-back hair wasn't carrying a weapon. Instead, he raised one arm to block Adrian's knife thrust, and with the other stuck a small canister in his face which sprayed a fine, wet mist. Adrian breathed it in before he could stop himself. His lungs immediately seized as if he'd breathed in acid. He doubled over involuntarily, gagging and choking.

The gang-bangers spun around, grabbing Adrian from behind. Instinctively, Adrian reversed the knife in his hand with a quick twist and drove it backward into the thigh of the nearest man. He heard a howl of rage and someone cursing in rapid-fire Spanish but had no opportunity to judge how much damage the knife had done as the man with the slicked-back hair grabbed Adrian by the hair and smashed his face into his drawn up knee.

Pain exploded in Adrian's face. He staggered and would have fallen if it weren't for the two who pinned his arms from behind. Someone took the handgun from his holster. Tires squealed as a vehicle skidded to an abrupt stop on the street beside them. Adrian heard the distinctive sound of a van door sliding back on its rails. Dread coiled in his stomach as he realized what was happening. Somehow LeBeau had out-maneuvered him. His lungs burned, a white-hot agony he could barely breathe through.

The two gang-bangers half-carried half-propelled Adrian to the van. He fought them, but they had the advantage of both numbers and leverage. They tossed him inside, where he landed on his back on the bare metal floor. The men quickly climbed inside and the bright sunlight abruptly cut out as the van door slammed shut. Before Adrian could gather himself, the man with the slicked-back hair leaned over him, his expression smug.

"Say goodnight, Gracie," he said in thickly-accented English and then punched Adrian hard in the face.

Adrian spun away into darkness.

#-#-#-#

Trish Tilby watched the X-Men with great interest from her seat near the back of the Blackbird's cabin. She'd done her best to remain quiet and unobtrusive as the mutant team went about its business, though that hadn't stopped her from having Eddie roll film. She wanted as much footage of the X-Men in action as she could get.

Despite the cramped environs, there was a great deal of activity on board the jet. Cyclops and Storm were in the cockpit. Just aft of them, Hank and a very large black man who had been introduced as Bishop were hunched over a rather sophisticated-looking array of video monitors and other assorted AV equipment. They looked like they were checking connections and sorting out wiring. Even from the opposite end of the cabin, Trish found herself catching occasional snatches of conversation and she was surprised by how fortifying she found the sound of Hank's rumbling voice.

Her heart squeezed unexpectedly at the thought. Hank had barely acknowledged her when she boarded the plane, and the one time she had managed to catch his gaze, the wordless betrayal in his blue eyes had been like a physical force pushing her away.

Mid-cabin, the bulk of the X-Men gathered in a loose group around a large schematic that several of them held open across the seat backs, apparently going over last-minute mission timing. They all seemed strangely appropriate in their dark colored uniforms, though it was distinctly odd to see the mutants armed with ordinary weapons instead of their powers.

Perhaps even stranger, though, was Mystique's presence with the group. She, too, was dressed in the X-Men's colors and had a sniper's rifle slung across her back. Trish had not been able to contain her curiosity, but when she'd asked Cyclops about the mutant terrorist's presence his only answer had been a shrug. "She's family, and she's helping," he'd said.

Finally, Trish turned her gaze toward the back of the aircraft. In the small open space surrounding a medical unit, the demon-eyed Gambit and Bobby Drake, of all people, were going through a final check of their equipment, which, from what Trish could see involved a combination of high-tech gadgetry and climbing gear. The two were dressed a little differently from the rest. Though their uniforms bore the same red highlights and the X-Men's symbol, they appeared to be designed entirely for stealth rather than combat.

Trish had done some digging after her meeting with the X-Men at that ritzy gambling club. She had a couple of contacts inside NYPD, and they'd given her some very interesting—albeit conflicting—information about the mutant known as Gambit. Some rumors had him involved in organized crime, though the guys over in OCCB swore he wasn't one of the Kingpin's people. Other rumors said he'd come out of the intelligence community, though that usually implied military experience and as far as Trish could tell, no one named Remy LeBeau had ever served. The most reliable information she'd been able to dig up labeled the man as nothing more than a fairly sophisticated thief who worked on contract for anyone who could afford his services, which made her wonder how and why he'd ended up with the X-Men.

Trish didn't really know what to make of Bobby. This was definitely not the same goofy, immature young man who'd trailed around in Hank's shadow. Instead, he gave off an air of competence as he methodically checked his gear. He'd also buffed up in the time since her break-up with Hank, she noted. The tight suits left little to the imagination, and Bobby now wore the sleek, well-defined musculature of an acrobat.

While Trish's thoughts continued to turn, Rogue broke away from the main group of X-Men and made her way down the center aisle toward the med unit. Her hair had been pulled back into a thick braid that fell nearly to her waist, and she, too, wore a high-power rifle across her back. Trish wondered briefly what it must have been like to grow up with Mystique.

Rogue stopped when her shadow fell across her husband, who looked up abruptly from his conversation with Bobby.

Rogue cleared her throat. "About yesterday, sugah—"

Gambit shook his head, effectively cutting her off with the gesture. "I can't do dis right now, chere," he said. "'M sorry." He immediately turned back to Bobby, apparently resuming the conversation where they'd left off.

Rogue stared at him for a long moment, her throat working soundlessly. But then she turned and walked back to her place with the other X-Men.

"I wonder what that was about," Eddie commented from behind his camera.

Trish could only shrug. "Who knows? I can't image what kind of stress being an X-Man would put on a marriage."

"Two minutes thirty seconds to the first insertion point." Cyclops' voice crackled across the Blackbird's communication system. Like the rest of the X-Men, Trish wore a wireless headset that allowed communication between the cockpit and cabin.

"Acknowledged," Gambit answered.

Trish watched as he and Bobby wrapped up what they were doing and slid into their packs. The two men set their headsets aside, rose to their feet and moved to the side of the cabin where the ramp was located.

Trish felt the change in pressure as the aircraft descended. She yawned to clear her ears. A few seconds later, she felt the Blackbird settle to the ground in vertical mode. The ramp opened just far enough for the two X-Men to slip through the opening and leap to the ground. They disappeared almost immediately into the night-shrouded woods surrounding the clearing in which they'd landed.

Rogue, she noted, watched the silent departure with a haunted expression in her eyes, but she didn't say anything.

The ramp closed with a mechanical thump and Trish heard the engines spool back up. The Blackbird rose smoothly into the sky. They only flew for a couple of minutes before setting down once again. This time the engines cut out and the access ramp descended fully. The X-Men deplaned, and Trish rose to follow them. Pine trees rose a hundred feet into the air all around the narrow cleared corridor in which they'd landed.

Cyclops was the last to emerge. He looked his team over with a keen expression then gestured toward two of the X-Men. "Wolverine, Psylocke, secure the perimeter."

The two nodded nearly in unison and headed off in opposite directions, disappearing into the darkness.

Cyclops braced his hands on his hips. "All right, everyone. Let's get to work."

To Trish's surprise, several of the X-Men—including Cyclops and the big man, Bishop—immediately began removing the upper half of their body armor suits, revealing black lycra t-shirts beneath. Others milled about, setting up several tripod-mounted lights. Trish had no idea what to make of it until someone removed a set of shovels from a storage compartment in the airplane's belly. Under Cyclops' direction, they marked off an area perhaps four feet by four feet within the circle of illumination cast by the lights and began to dig.

Trish watched for a few minutes before turning her steps reluctantly toward the Blackbird's ramp. The only X-Man who hadn't exited the plane was Hank. Eddie drifted after her, camera balanced casually on his shoulder.

Trish found Hank still with the AV equipment. He had brought out a laptop, which he was in the process of connecting to the other electronics.

Trish clasped her hands in front of her, feeling awkward and uncomfortable. "Hi, Hank," she said when he looked over his shoulder at her. "Do you have some time to explain what's going on to me?"

His startled, wary expression quickly morphed into one of scholarly affability. "Of course." He waved to the front row of the Blackbird's seats. "Please, make yourself comfortable."

Trish settled in a seat that gave her a good view of the array of monitors. Hank turned his back to her and went back to work.

"What would you like to know?" he asked without turning.

Trish paused to organize her thoughts. "Well, what is all this?" she asked with a wave toward the bank of equipment. "And why are they digging outside?"

"We're tapping into the assembly facility's internal security system."

Trish blinked in surprise. "It's that easy?"

Hank chuckled and shook his head. "Oh my, no. We're just picking up the feed out here. The actual hacking has to be done from the inside."

"I see." That explained what Gambit and Bobby—Iceman, she corrected herself since they were supposed to use codenames only—were doing. "How long will it take?"

Hank checked his watch. "We're supposed to go live in a little under three hours." Apparently satisfied with the connections to the laptop, he pushed it aside and pulled out another thick bundle of cables which he began gently separating with the tips of his claws. "I'll be running the systems here, and playing the eyes and ears for the insertion teams."

"Teams?" As far as Trish knew, there was just the one team going into the interior of the plant.

Hank nodded. "You saw the schematics, correct?" He didn't wait for her to answer. "There are three guard towers, for lack of a better term, that overlook the grounds. The second team is responsible for neutralizing those."

"And by 'neutralizing' you mean…?"

He turned to look at her then, his blue eyes weary behind the wire-rimmed spectacles. "You know, there was once a time when we could do this kind of thing and nearly guarantee no one would be seriously injured. We had telepaths to knock people unconscious from a distance, without harming them. A mutant who controls temperature who could do the same. Telekinetics and energy manipulators who could raise defensive shields." He shook his head sadly and turned away once again. "Now we are reduced to having no choice but to kill before we are killed."

Momentarily out of questions, Trish stared at his broad back, wondering why her fingers suddenly itched for the feel of his fur. She balled her hands into fists in her lap. "So, how badly do you still hate me?" The question popped out of her mouth before she could consider it.

Hank went very still. "I do not believe this is the time to be having this discussion," he said after a minute.

Trish bit her lip. "That much, huh?" she muttered to herself. Wiping her palms on the dark fabric of her military-style cargo pants, she stood. She waited a moment to see if Hank would say anything, and when he didn't, she made her way back outside.


	42. Chapter 42

Chapter 42

"Remy, don't move." The warning from Bobby was little more than a breathless whisper.

Remy froze. "What's de problem?" he asked in the same low tone. He was balanced precariously on a small lip of concrete—the bulging seam where two massive structural sections came together—halfway through the process of climbing down onto one of the steel I-beams that stuck out of the cement at regular intervals. His muscles burned from the effort of checking his forward motion while in such an awkward crouch.

"Are you touching that beam?"

"Non." At the moment, he was balanced on the ball of one foot and had the other dangling over a hundred foot drop to the floor of the immense substructure that housed the nuclear reactor powering the sentinels manufacturing facility.

Bobby breathed a shaky sigh. "There are strips of piezo film on the beam. I didn't see them until just now."

Piezoelectric film was a unique kind of transducer that produced voltage in response to either compressive or tensile strain. In layman's terms, the strips measured vibration, and the film was cheap enough to be used liberally as a form of intrusion detector throughout the reactor substructure.

Remy resisted the urge to curse. The true mark of a thief's skill was being able to deal with all the things that _weren't_ in the plans, but he had really been hoping the people that designed this place were more bureaucratic and less imaginative. There was already a highly sophisticated sensing network in place that fed the installation's earthquake mitigation system, and it had taken Remy nearly a day to find a route through the structure that wouldn't trip any of those. The piezo film had been somebody's last-minute addition.

Very carefully he shifted his weight backward until he could draw his foot up beneath him and felt Bobby grab hold of the back of his climbing harness. With a boost from the younger man, he was able to turn and climb back up to where their tensioned lines ran along the curved cement wall and reattach himself. Letting the lines take his weight, he took the brief opportunity to rest while he contemplated how to work around this latest obstacle.

Closing his eyes, he called up the building plans in his mind. The reactor occupied a two-hundred foot tall structure at the center of this cement shell. Steel trusses crossed the seventy or so yards separating the exterior shell from the reactor housing in a set of radial spokes. Above and below him there were additional rings of spokes at thirty-five foot vertical intervals.

Over the structural plans, he layered the electrical, cooling, security and other information. He studied the conglomerate for a while, trying to figure out how they were going to get over to the reactor itself with this new wrinkle. Obviously, the trusses were out of the question, and they didn't have the right kind of equipment to go across the dome-shaped ceiling. That left the floor, which was covered by a net of lasers.

Remy sighed. "We're gon' have t' shut down de laser grid." Unfortunately, because of the way the circuit was designed, it was only possible to interrupt it for twelve seconds before the capacitor drained and the field reset. Both he and Bobby were capable of sprinting the distance to the reactor within that window—they'd timed it—but it would be tight.

Bobby shook his head. "Oh joy."

Remy grinned at the sarcasm in the other man's voice. Bobby began moving back the way they'd come and Remy followed. They rappelled to the ground inside the narrow clear space surrounding the maintenance door through which they'd entered, then reclaimed their lines.

Remy's vision allowed him to see the laser beams. The fine lines of high frequency light hovered like glowing spider webs against the murky background of the cooler steel and cement. The control pad for the grid sat just to the right of the door, and it required both a smart card and a thumbprint to unlock. Only the plant supervisor and the engineers had permission to come down here.

Remy heard the high-pitched mechanical whine as Bobby pulled out a small power screwdriver and began dismantling the control pad casing. Remy dug into his pack for the equipment they'd need then moved over to Bobby's side.

Bobby gave him a quick rundown of the wiring he'd exposed, all of which conformed to the diagrams the Guild had obtained. With Bobby as his eyes to verify the identity of each wire he touched, Remy carefully spliced into the grid controls. The override he introduced was controlled by a small remote, which he tucked into a protected pocket as he and Bobby packed up their tools and donned their backpacks once more. Unfortunately, there was no way to avoid leaving the dismantled control pad as evidence of their intrusion, but unless they got very unlucky and there was some kind of problem with the reactor, no one was likely to discover it for a while.

"Ready?" Remy asked once they'd positioned themselves.

He saw Bobby draw a deep breath and release it, his entire body poised like a runner waiting for the starting gun. "Ready."

Remy flipped the switch on the remote. Three quarters of a second later, the laser grid disappeared.

"Go."

They ran, their footsteps echoing hollowly in the cavernous, cement-walled space. Remy didn't bother to count the seconds in his head as he kept pace with Bobby. Instead he counted his steps, gauging his distance from the reactor structure with every one.

The laser grid extended all the way to the base of the reactor tower, so at the very end of their sprint they had to leap up and catch the metal ladder affixed to the side of the tower and swing their feet up out of the way of the grid before it came back on. That was the part that scared Remy. He could make the run just fine, but if the ladder wasn't where the plans said it would be, he would miss it.

Side by side they reached the reactor tower. Remy leapt for the ladder, using the advantage his physical mutation gave him to spring a full ten feet upward. He heard the sharp clang that told him Bobby had caught the ladder a ways beneath him just as his fingertips brushed metal. He scrabbled for a grip, but couldn't hang on. Beneath them, the laser grid winked back on. Falling, Remy grabbed for the next rung down, missed it, and finally managed to catch the one beneath that. He swung hard into the ladder, bracing his feet at a point several feet above the lasers, and tried to still the pounding of his heart.

"You okay?" Bobby asked after a minute.

Remy nodded. "Yeah." He resisted the temptation to rest his forehead against the side of the metal ladder and instead forced himself to begin climbing. The ladder had been installed about four inches to the right of where the schematic showed it.

Bobby followed him. They made their way up a zigzagging set of the metal ladders to the top of the reactor tower. The cement ceiling was only about ten feet above them now. A group of circular metal ducts stuck up out of the tower roof, disappearing through the ceiling of the man-made cavern. It was part of the air exchange system for the reactor.

Bobby unslung his backpack and knelt to open it. "Are you _sure_ the radiation inside this thing isn't going to kill us?" he asked without looking up.

Remy sighed and set his own pack on the ground at his feet. "I'm sure. Won't hardly be more than y'd get from a couple of days in space." Reaching for the back of his neck, he unlimbered the tight hood he'd had Richards design into their suits.

There was very little hard radiation spilling from the reactor, but the radioactive particles that got into the air exchanger could still be dangerous if they lodged inside their lungs, in particular. Remy didn't fancy dying of radiation poisoning. So, to that end both he and Bobby had full face masks—like firefighter's masks—that would cover their eyes as well. The attached compressed air tanks only had a fifteen minute supply, but that would be more than enough for the short climb they needed to make. Their suits should keep the vast majority of particles from getting to their skin. Whatever little did get through they would wash off at O-MOM. Cecilia Reyes had promised them a reasonable hazmat set up and she had a contact at FEMA that would take care of the disposal of their uniforms without asking questions.

The worst part about it, honestly, was that it might end up costing him a set of tools. He wouldn't know until they got to O-MOM whether the metal had picked up enough radiation to make them unkeepable.

Once they'd donned their masks and made sure the airflow was working, Bobby lit an acetylene torch and went to work cutting a hole in the side of one of the vents. He cut three-quarters of the way around, the hot edge glowing bright and lurid, and then Remy came over to help him bend the metal back far enough to allow them to climb through.

Because of their time limitations, Remy had opted to take the brute approach to the climb. Rather than messing with suction climbers which, though discreet, were bulky and slow, he'd brought a set of modified rock-climbing pitons. The metal of the vent was thin enough that he could stab the pointed ends of the pitons through it, and strong enough that it wasn't likely to tear when he put his weight on it. And as long as they left the pitons in place, they would do a reasonable job of blocking the puncture holes.

Bobby pulled their door more-or-less closed behind them as Remy started upward. The leakage would eventually set off the radiation detectors, but those were designed to catch a major breach so it would take hours, if not days, before their thresholds were reached.

Ten minutes later they reached the top of the shaft. They made short work of escaping its confines into a two-foot tall crawlspace that marked the division between the reactor substructure and the building that sat atop it. The crawlspace was interrupted at regular intervals by massive cement supports. Remy didn't know quite enough engineering to be certain why the foundation had been laid this way, though he suspected it had something to do with protecting the nuclear reactor from an above-ground impact. The mansion's foundation had been similar, and like the mansion, the design's major weakness was in the base of the elevator shafts.

Bobby chuckled as they resealed the shaft. "Let's hear it for duct tape." The small light affixed to the shoulder of his uniform glowed brightly in Remy's sight.

Remy grinned. "Use number ten-thousand an' twenty-eight." He rarely went on a job without several kinds of tape in his gear.

Once they were confident there wouldn't be any leakage of radioactive particles into their crawlspace, they removed their masks and left them behind.

"How're we doin' on time?" Remy asked as they crawled on their bellies across the damp cement. It was a good thing he wasn't claustrophobic. The space was so narrow they couldn't wear their packs and instead had to push them along the floor ahead of them.

Bobby paused to check his watch. "Not great," he said.

Remy shrugged to himself and kept going. Cyclops would simply have to cope.

They eventually came to a point directly beneath the floor of one of the elevator shafts. The foundation above them remained unbroken, but the cement was fairly thin here. Bobby brought out a set of small, remote-detonated charges from his bag and affixed them to the ceiling in a circle about the size of a manhole cover.

They scooted back. Remy crossed his arms and buried his face in the crook of his elbow as the charges went off with a loud _whump_. Pieces of cement pattered to the ground and a hot wave of dust rolled over him.

Coughing a bit, he crawled back up to the site and carefully began exploring the result with his fingers. The charges had sheared through the rebar imbedded in the cement, vaporizing most of it and leaving a relatively clean hole.

The elevator car sat at ground level when it wasn't in use, which put it two stories above their heads. They climbed up into the empty space at the bottom of the shaft and spent a few minutes shaking off the worst of the dust.

Remy slung his pack over his shoulders. From here on in, the security would be much tighter.

#-#-#-#

A strange kind of tension had overtaken the interior of the Blackbird, Trish thought. They had finished hooking their system up to the shielded cables that carried information to and from the sentinels plant. A thick bundle of wires emerged from the tangle of AV equipment at the front of the Blackbird's cabin. It snaked down through an access hatch in the floor and emerged from the nose gear wheel well before trailing off into the ditch the X-Men had dug. About twenty minutes earlier, Hank had powered up the monitors, but they remained the solid blue that indicated there was no signal as of yet.

Cyclops paced in the small open space between the monitors and the first row of seats, glancing every so often at the electronics and then his watch. Hank remained seated before the equipment with the laptop opened in front of him and appeared to be running some kind of diagnostic routine.

Conversation among the X-Men was muted, though no one seemed to be overly worried about the still-blank screens. Wolverine had pulled out a deck of playing cards and he, Psylocke, Mystique and Bishop had a game of some sort going.

And then there was Rogue. She sat a little removed from the others with her rifle balanced across her knees. She had her head leaned back against the seat rest and her eyes closed, but Trish doubted she was resting. She was gripping the rifle in her lap so hard her knuckles had turned white. Trish wasn't sure why the young woman kept capturing her attention, unless some piece of her inner vapid romantic had somehow escaped captivity and was running amok amid her higher brain functions.

Eventually, Trish gave in. This was how she kept ending up with fifteen hours of unwatched soap operas on her TiVo every week, too. She rose and walked over to the other woman, who did not acknowledge her approach. She settled in the chair across the aisle from Rogue and crossed her legs.

"So how long have you been married?" she asked conversationally.

Rogue's eyes opened. She turned her head to regard Trish, a faint smile touching her lips. "It'll be five weeks tomorrow."

Trish raised her eyebrows in surprise once she'd done the math. "Right in the middle of a war against OZT seems like a strange time to be tying the knot."

Rogue shrugged, her smile dimming. "Yeah." She returned her head to its original position and closed her eyes again.

"I guess the honeymoon will have to wait until after OZT is gone."

Trish was unprepared for the reaction her comment engendered. Rogue reared up in her seat, her breath hissing through her teeth, and when she turned to look at Trish, the devastation in her eyes was enough to shock the other woman into silence.

"Ah don't want ta talk about when OZT is gone," Rogue said after a minute. She moistened her lips, seeming to regain some of her composure with the action.

"Why not?"

Rogue gave her a withering look. "Ya don't have any idea how mah powers work, do ya?"

Trish was a little embarrassed to realize she had no idea exactly what Rogue's powers were. She could fly, she remembered, but wasn't sure beyond that. She shook her head.

The hard stare didn't change. "Well, don't expect me to enlighten ya."

Trish didn't get the chance to formulate a response as chorus of cheers erupted at the front of the cabin. Rogue was out of her seat and headed forward before Trish had properly registered that the bank of monitors had come to life, each one showing a different view of the sentinel factory's interior.

"They're in." The statement came from Wolverine, who materialized at Trish's elbow so silently that she jumped in surprise. He favored her with a toothy grin.

"All right, everyone." Cyclops's voice cut through the rest of the voices. "That's our cue. Wolverine, your team is up."

Wolverine nodded and moved past Trish. Rogue, Mystique, Psylocke and Cannonball all made to follow him. The group said little as they gathered up their weapons and equipment, but the sense of purpose that suddenly permeated all of the X-Men didn't require any words. Storm ducked briefly into the cockpit to lower the Blackbird's ramp, and within a couple of minutes the entire group had disappeared into the night.

Cyclops looked over the remaining X-Men. "Twenty minutes until we go," he told them.

Storm raised the ramp and Trish wandered over to the bank of monitors. Most of the images were static—odd-angled pictures of generic office hallways—but here and there a man or woman walked by. A few looked like doctors with long white lab coats, and the rest seemed like ordinary office workers. She paused as a man in a security guard's uniform crossed one of the screens.

"There are a lot of people at work for a Sunday night." She glanced over at Cyclops who had come to stand beside her. How are we going to avoid being seen?"

"They're almost exclusively in the outer ring of the facility," Cyclops answered, which explained little. He seemed to realize she wasn't following him. "Here." He reached over to grab the rolled up drawing the X-Men had been looking at earlier.

He spread it out across the top of the monitors, eliciting a protest from Hank. With a quick apology, he moved over to the seats. Trish followed. She'd seen the schematic before, but now she studied it in more detail. The facility was roughly square--a huge, flat-topped, three-story featureless cube. Parking lots abutted the building on two sides, both feeding into a single four-lane main gate. Three guard towers sat at a distance from the three corners farthest from the gate.

"The installation is essentially two separate buildings under a single roof," Cyclops said. "The outer building is offices. The inner core is the actual manufacturing facility." He outlined the sections with his finger. "The two are connected at only two points, one on either side of the facility. These two tunnels," he tapped the appropriate places on the diagram, "are the _only _ways in and out of the manufacturing center. Gambit tells me everything gets run through them—power, water, computing, you name it. Otherwise, there's a fourteen foot thick wall of cement separating the two sections."

He went on. "The outer building is covered by cameras. The inner one is not. There's a security room in the outer ring where the guards can view any of the footage, and it's all sent to Washington as well. Those are the cables we're sitting on out here." He smiled humorlessly.

Trish looked up at him in surprise. "Why aren't there any cameras covering the inner building?"

Cyclops shrugged. "Probably because anything that gets recorded by a security camera can potentially be intercepted or leaked, and I doubt OZT wants anyone to know what they're doing in there."

"Okay, that makes sense." And it sent a tiny little shiver crawling up and down her spine.

Cyclops nodded and continued with his explanation. "Because we have control over the video feeds, we're not concerned about anyone in security noticing us, and Beast will be able to warn us if we're about to cross paths with someone who works in the installation."

He glanced over at Trish. "Once we're inside the manufacturing facility—the core—we should only have a couple of night guards and the sentinels themselves to worry about."

Trish eyed him for a long moment, trying to decipher his tone. "What's the catch?" she finally asked.

He gave her another of his tight smiles. "The catch is that we have absolutely no idea what we're going to find once we get inside the center building, Ms. Tilby. At that point we'll be winging it."

#-#-#-#

Rogue followed Wolverine toward the electrified fence that surrounded the sentinels facility, trying desperately to put Trish's words out of her mind. The idea of getting her powers back left her feeling cold all over. If she were honest with herself, she knew there was never going to be a honeymoon. It was all just a farce, this life she was leading now—a dream. A fantasy.

Ahead, Wolverine raised his right hand, forming a fist. Rogue froze, shoving her thoughts back into line. Living through the night had to take priority over the eventual train wreck of her future.

Silently, Wolverine pointed to a splash of white paint that illuminated one of the tethers for a trip wire strung across their path and Rogue couldn't help but smile a bit. Remy and Bobby had come this way, and had marked the security measures they needed to avoid.

One after another, the group stepped carefully over the wire and continued on. OZT had done a good job of clearing the land around their installation originally, but they'd grown lax about maintaining it. The fence had been set along the center of a cement pad twenty feet wide. Rogue suspected the main purpose had been to keep the high-voltage barrier from starting a forest fire. Now the ground up to the pad's edge was choked with low brush and scrub trees.

The installation grounds were brightly lit by floodlights mounted on building's roofline. Crouched in the bushes near the fence, Rogue could clearly see the pair of patrolling guards as they walked the edge of the building approximately eighty yards away. No one moved until the guards had disappeared around the corner of the building.

Directly ahead of the five X-Men, the middle guard tower rose roughly fifty feet into the air, looking like a squat aircraft control tower with its octagonal base and angular bulb-like top made of bulletproof glass panes. The shadow it cast fell across the fence and covered their hiding place in an extra layer of darkness.

Nearly invisible in the columnar shadow, a short archway had been cut in the electrified fence. A set of small black boxes had been clipped to the fence at even intervals along the arch and were attached to their neighbors by pairs of wires. Rogue recognized the bypass system from her years with Mystique, and in a small corner of her mind she found it odd that Remy would be using the same methods and equipment. She shouldn't, she knew, and her heart twinged at the thought. Remy had no doubt learned a thing or two from Mystique in their days together.

Wolverine raised a pair of field glasses to his eyes, watching the movements of the lone guard occupying the tower. After a few moments, he lowered the glasses and led them forward.

Moving as fast as they dared, the group ducked through the opening in the fence and dashed to the foot of the tower. They flattened themselves against the tower's side to stay out of the guard's range of vision.

Rogue glanced off to her right where the ground sloped down into a drainage gully. Somewhere in there was a grate through which Remy and Bobby had gained entrance to the installation.

On their way through, the two thieves had disabled the alarm on the guard tower door, though they'd left the lock alone. Wolverine pulled out a set of lock picks and went to work. Less than twenty seconds later, he pulled the door open and slipped inside. One by one, the rest of them followed.

They left Sam at the first landing, where he took up a position with a good line of fire on the door through which they'd come. Psylocke moved up to take the point with Wolverine. The two climbed the stairs on opposite sides of the stairwell, Logan with both sets of claws extended and Psylocke with one of her Asian-styled knives in her hand. Rogue and Mystique hung back a short ways.

A second door blocked the top of the stairwell. Rogue could tell from a quick survey of the door and the frame that, though the door was most likely secured, the mechanism was a mundane household lock. There were no deadbolts or other reinforcements.

Wolverine mouthed a silent count then kicked the door in. He and Psylocke went inside in a rush. There were no lights on inside the room in order to aid the guard's night vision, but the nearby floodlights provided plenty of illumination.

From her place on the stairs, Rogue saw the startled guard spin around just in time for Wolverine's claws to spear him in the throat. Her, Rogue corrected as the woman stared at her killer with wide eyes, her mouth moving silently. Psylocke caught the body as the guard collapsed, lowering her to the floor.

Wolverine didn't move. Blood dripped from the tips of his claws, splattering on the plain cement floor.

Psylocke looked up at him from where she knelt next to the dead guard. "Man or woman, anyone who takes up arms for OZT is fair game," she said severely.

Logan stirred. "I know." He wiped his claws clean and then sheathed them. "Just surprised me."

Rogue forced herself to concentrate on business as she followed Mystique into the glass-encased room. Unlimbering her rifle, she laid it on the narrow counter that ran the circumference of the room. Opposite her, Mystique did the same. Psylocke slipped out of the backpack she'd been carrying and set it on the counter. Then she and Wolverine retreated to the stairwell, out of the way of the two snipers.

Mystique began pulling equipment out of the backpack. Most important were the two glass-cutters. Rogue took one and went to work cutting a circular hole in the glass on one side of the tower. Mystique did the same on the opposite side.

Bulletproof glass was a misnomer, Rogue thought a few minutes later as she seated herself on the counter and aimed the nose of her rifle through the hole in the glass. She adjusted her position until she had the transparent bulb at the top of the neighboring guard tower in her sights. Inside, she could see the back of the guard manning the tower as he rocked back and forth on his heels, staring out at the grounds. It was really just bullet-_resistant_ glass. The right kind of ammunition would punch a hole through it just as readily as ordinary glass.

She sighted in until she had the guard's broad back squarely framed in her brackets. The tower guards didn't wear any body armor. Her finger curled around the trigger.

"Ready," she told her mother.

The counter creaked faintly as Mystique shifted her weight. "On two," Mystique said.

Rogue forced herself to breathe. The air had a metallic bite to it now as the smell of the dead woman's blood filled the room.

"One."

Rogue exhaled slowly, letting the tension run out of her. Her perception narrowed until nothing existed for her except the target and the trigger.

"Two."

She and Mystique fired almost simultaneously. The weapons were both flash-suppressed and silenced, so they made only a kind of muffled whooshing noise as the redirected exhaust gasses were expelled. Through the sights, Rogue watched as the glass on the distant guard tower filled with spidery cracks radiating out from a central point. Beyond it the guard's back exploded in a spray of red, and she knew from the size of it that she'd hit his heart.

She straightened slowly and lowered the rifle. A glance at Mystique confirmed that she, too, had hit her target. The strange thing, Rogue thought, was that it didn't really bother her any more. Well, it bothered her, she qualified, in the sense that she wished there was some other way, but she didn't feel much guilt for the woman laying at her feet or the man she'd just shot. They'd chosen to be here just as much as she had.

"Towers are down," Mystique reported to Wolverine. "You're clear."

Logan simply nodded and then he and Psylocke headed back down the stairs.

As soon as they were out of sight, Rogue reached up and switched on the tiny communicator she wore over her right ear and saw Mystique do the same.

"Wolverine, do you copy?" she said in a low voice.

"Loud an' clear, darlin'," came the immediate response. Psylocke and Cannonball also chimed in, verifying that their communicators were working as well. The devices had been another contribution from Reed Richards. They were similar to the X-Men's traditional communicators, and, along with being encrypted, they worked in a frequency range that would most likely be mistaken for background noise.

Rogue leaned over to watch out the windows as Wolverine headed out across the grounds to intercept the two guards walking the perimeter of the building while Psylocke and Cannonball made their way toward the main gate. Once those two threats were neutralized, Scott and his team would have a clear path to the building.

Rogue sighed softly and brushed a few errant strands of hair out of her face. "So far, so good."

#-#-#-#

"Hello, America, this is Trish Tilby reporting from somewhere in rural Virginia. I'm standing just outside what is known as the U.S.-East Sentinels Assembly Facility." Trish kept her voice low and stared directly into the camera's dark lens. With a night vision filter and the illumination from the floodlit area behind her, there was no need to turn on the camera lights. At her back, the X-Men had begun ducking through the gap that had been cut in the fence surrounding the complex, which she was certain Eddie was capturing.

"I'm here with the X-Men and in a very short while we are going to show you the truth about how Operation: Zero Tolerance creates its Prime Sentinels."

Trish gestured for Eddie to pan the camera toward the tower looming above them. "As you can see, the facility is highly secure. This fence behind me carries enough voltage to kill a grown man, and those are guard towers you can see behind me."

At an impatient hiss from Cyclops, she signaled Eddie to stop filming. She and the cameraman crawled through the hole in the fence. Trish accepted a helping hand from the tall, quiet man who'd been introduced as Joseph as she climbed to her feet on the far side.

He looked distinctly uncomfortable and released her hand quickly.

_Not much is known about Joseph, the newest member of the X-Men,_ Trish narrated silently as she followed him across the wide swath of empty yard toward the back of the building. _But even a brief time spent in his company is enough to discover that this is a gentle man, a quiet man. His powers may have brought him to the X-Men, but I must wonder what conviction makes him stay._

They reached the edge of the building. A single metal door marred the unbroken expanse of pre-poured concrete slabs. The door had no handle, and there didn't appear to be any way to open it from the outside. That wasn't what made Trish pause, though.

She gestured urgently to Eddie. "I want a shot of this." She pointed to the door, which had _Draxar, Incorporated_ stenciled neatly across it in black letters. Eddie obediently raised the camera.

At the same time, Wolverine and Psylocke seemed to materialize out of the shadows along the wall and joined them. Wolverine, she noted, had blood on his hands, though she had no way of knowing if it was his own or someone else's.

Trish turned to look at the purple-haired woman. Even in the all-encompassing black suit and with her hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, she remained both elegant and beautiful.

_Elisabeth Braddock was born to wealth and prestige,_ Trish began silently They would have to dig up some old stills and do a collage of the glitz and glam side of Psylocke. _An ex-model, she has been seen with both movie stars and British lords, and is currently dating Warren Worthington III, CEO of a multi-billion dollar corporation and one of the most recognizable mutants in the world. She could have gone into hiding when Operation: Zero Tolerance began, but instead she's here, risking her life with the X-Men._

A soft click from the other side of the door drew the instant attention of their entire group. The door swung inward to reveal Bobby's Drake's boyish face. Gambit stood a short ways behind him, his attention focused toward the interior of the building. Both men were coated in a fine layer of grime.

"Any trouble?" Cyclops asked as they filed into a plain, institutional-looking hallway.

Gambit shook his head. "Non." He tipped his head ever-so-slightly to the side, away from Cyclops. "Beast, where's dat janitor we passed on de way over here?" he addressed the air.

Feeling immensely foolish, Trish realized she'd completely forgotten she was supposed to turn on her communicator. She did so and Hank's voice filled her ear.

"—floor buffer out of the supply closet. He won't be a problem."

"Got it. We're headin' back de way we came. First turn will be a left into hallway G-1."

"Understood."

Gambit headed down the hall with Bobby a couple of steps behind. The rest of the X-Men followed, with Trish and Eddie in their wake. It seemed ridiculously easy. With occasional instructions from Hank, they simply walked through the outer portion of the complex, passing empty offices and meeting rooms without incident.

Trish used the trek to study the X-Men as individuals rather than as a collective whole. She wanted to do profiles of each of them, airing them every couple of days over the upcoming weeks. Because if people could see the X-Men, not as extraordinary mutants, but as ordinary people, then maybe they would start to think that they, too, might have something to contribute to the cause of winning their country back from OZT.

She glanced over at the man who would be at the center of the piece. _If you asked him, Cyclops would be the first to tell you he's just a regular guy. But he's also the visionary behind the resistance movement and a man who has steadfastly refused to let OZT intimidate him._

Trish filed her thoughts away as they came to halt in front of another plain metal door. This one had "No unauthorized personnel beyond this point" stenciled on it in large red letters.

Bobby crouched down, examining something where the door and frame came together. "It's as ugly as we thought," he told Gambit after a minute. "There's a secondary circuit here, though heck if I can figure out what it's for."

"'S okay. Dat's my job." He knelt beside Bobby. "Give me de run down."

Bobby went into a long, detailed description filled with terms Trish suspected even most electricians didn't know. As he spoke, Gambit very carefully traced the wires with his fingers. Trish was impressed to realize she could literally see the play of muscles in the man's hands. What would it take to develop that kind of muscle definition in one's _hands_? His fine motor control had to be off the scale.

_With hands like that, he must be phenomenal in bed_, she decided, and wondered if she dared ask Rogue any questions about her sex life. A little bit of tabloid gossip might make for a nice sideline to the serious profiles. That was how people identified with their sports idols and movie stars, so why not do it with mutants too? The X-Men couldn't be too different if they loved and fought and made mistakes just like everyone else.

The team waited in tense silence while Gambit and Bobby painstakingly snipped a couple of near-invisible wires running along the door jamb. When no alarms went off, Bobby reached for the door handle, but Gambit caught his wrist.

"Non. Somet'ing's not right."

"Do we have a problem?" Cyclops asked immediately, his expression sharp. He tipped his chin up a fraction. "Beast, Rogue, Cannonball report in. Anything stirring out there?"

"Nothin' here, sugah," Rogue answered, her Southern drawl sounding out of place in the military-esque setting.

"Front gate's quiet, too," added Cannonball.

"I don't see any activity on the surveillance video," Beast said a moment later, "and radar remains clear."

Trish glanced questioningly at Cyclops. "Radar?"

He nodded. "The Blackbird's sensors will give us at least a couple of minutes warning if any sentinels show up."

"Oh." It was a chilling thought, and all the more so because she hadn't even considered the possibility.

Gambit looked over at Cyclops, traces of annoyance in his expression. "I would've said somet'ing if I thought we'd tripped an alarm."

"So what's the problem?"

"Dere's a third system on de door. One dat wasn' in de plans." He shrugged. "Jus' got t' find it."

Cyclops stared at him curiously. "If you can't find it, how do you know it's there?"

Gambit gave another of his fluid shrugs. "M' gut says it is. Dere been quite a few little extras in dis place dat were never put in de plans. Another alarm would fit wit' de general design philosophy."

Beside him, Bobby began to nod. "Like those vibration sensors." He looked up at the door as if seeing it in a new light. "Yeah, that makes sense. But where? We've cleared the frame."

Gambit raised a hand and rapped lightly on the door with one knuckle. "Let's drill a hole an' take a look inside," he told Bobby, and indicated a spot on the door.

"You're going to drill through metal?" Joseph took a step forward, his expression alarmed. "Won't that make too much noise?"

Gambit smirked at him. "Let me introduce y' to a little concept called lubrication, J." He pulled a small tube from a pocket in his uniform and waved it at the other man. "Who knows? Might improve y' luck wit' women, too."

Joseph turned bright red while several of the others discreetly tried to cover their laughter.

"_Gambit._ Focus, please." Cyclops rolled his eyes, though whether out of amusement or frustration Trish couldn't tell. She suspected it was some of both.

Gambit didn't look particularly chastised as he turned his attention back to the door. Under his direction, Bobby drilled through the metal, the process making no more noise than the whine of the motor driving the drill bit. Metal shavings fell to the floor in long silver curlicues and Trish caught a faint whiff of singed metal.

Once the hole was drilled, Bobby pulled out a long, prehensile wire about as big around as a pencil, attached to a small video screen. Trish recognized it after a minute as a fiber optic camera. He inserted the camera into the door's interior and then switched the video monitor on. His eyebrows immediately hiked toward his hairline.

He glanced over at Gambit. "I really hate it when you're right sometimes."

"Dat bad, eh?"

Bobby nodded. "There are pressure sensors on the back side of the plate the handle's attached to. Multiple circuits." He paused, studying the screen in his hand. "Multiple _collapsing_ circuits. Geez." The last was said under his breath.

"Don' panic," Gambit said in a calm, assured tone. "Jus' take me through it. Start at the sensors an' work backward."

What followed was an extended, painfully detailed discussion that Trish followed none of. She could tell from the X-Men's faces which of them had enough technical knowledge to keep up, and which were as lost as she was. Interestingly, Storm was among those following along, which Trish would never have guessed.

She grew increasingly nervous as the minutes ticked by. Watching as the two men very, very carefully worked on the circuitry inside the door was a nerve-wracking experience. Beast warned them twice of approaching workers, though both ended up turning toward other areas of the building before the got close enough to discover the X-Men.

Something about the entire disarming process nagged at Trish, but she didn't put it together until Bobby was reaching inside the door with an instrument that looked like nose hair clippers for an elephant. Gambit was very obviously the expert in these matters, but he'd done remarkably little of the actual hands-on work which didn't make any sense until she realized she had to disregard one very basic assumption.

Leaning toward Cyclops, she lowered her voice to a murmur. "He can't see, can he?" she asked with a nod toward Gambit.

Cyclops followed her gaze, his expression sharpening. "No, he can't."

Trish was sure her alarm showed on her face, because Cyclops' gave her a caustic grin. "Just wait. It gets worse."

Trish didn't get a chance to respond as Bobby withdrew the long scissor-like thing. He heaved what sounded like a sigh of pure relief and then both men stood.

Gambit reached out and pulled the door open. "Voila."

The X-Men quickly filed through the doorway and into a hall that looked like it belonged on a space station rather than in a factory. It was perhaps forty feet long and the cross-section was a square approximately nine feet on a side. The floor, walls and ceiling were all made of the same slick, seamless material. Trish was pretty certain it was industrial ceramic of some sort. Tiny silver ports littered the walls ahead of them, making abstract patterns along the middle twenty feet or so. They looked a bit like cameras, though she doubted that's what they were. A black sensor pad was attached to the left hand wall on either side of the ports, a single red LED winking on each one. And another door like the one they'd just come through blocked the far end of the hall.

This, Trish realized with a start, was one of the two entry tunnels into the manufacturing facility. Anticipation made her stomach tighten. They were almost there.

Gambit halted everyone with an outstretched hand only a few feet inside. The X-Men obediently hung back as he walked a little further ahead. He went first to one side of the tunnel, touching the wall in several places before repeating the action on the far side. Then he returned to the center, where he leapt up to touch the ceiling.

After checking to make sure Eddie had a clear line of sight for filming, Trish drifted over to where the X-Men's field leader stood. "What is he doing?"

"Checking the dimensions," Cyclops answered.

"Why?"

He jerked his chin toward the empty hallway. "That's a laser array out there, Ms. Tilby, and there's apparently no way to shut it down from this side."

"Here, try these." Wolverine appeared at her side and held out a pair of high-tech field glasses to her.

Trish raised the glasses to her face and gasped at the massive tangle of crisscrossed, glowing lines that jumped into view.

"Even worse, they're cutting lasers," Cyclops continued. "I can't imagine how much power those things soak up, but it's got to be horrendous."

That explained why the tunnel was lined with such an odd material, Trish thought. She slowly lowered the glasses.

"May I?" Cyclops held out his hand, and Trish handed him the glasses. He raised them to his eyes for a brief moment, as if confirming what he already knew to be there.

In the meantime, Bobby had gone over to the near sensor pad and was in the process of disassembling it. Gambit had set the pack he carried on the ground and appeared to sorting through the contents of his uniform's many Velcro-sealed pockets. He checked each one, in some cases returning whatever-it-was to its place and in others stowing it in the backpack. He appeared to be getting rid of every extraneous thing he was carrying.

Cyclops offered her the glasses again. "I don't know if you can see them clearly, but there are three sections to the lasers."

Trish quickly put the field-glasses up to her face as he continued, "On the front and back ends, there's a wall of parallel horizontal beams."

Trish nodded when she found them. The lasers sat at five or six inch intervals. They started only a couple of inches from the floor and ended about two-and-a-half feet from the ceiling.

"Why don't the beams go all the way up to the ceiling?" she wanted to know.

Cyclops shrugged. "I don't know. Something to do with interference. The power and data cables for the manufacturing area are run through a little gap between the ceramic shell and the two stories of concrete over our heads, and either the lasers interfere with the cables or vice versa."

Trish went back to looking at the laser field. "What about all the ones that crisscross in the middle?"

"That's the third set. Gambit tells me it's physically impossible to shut down the middle until both of the ends are down."

Trish turned to look at him. "Didn't you just tell me that it couldn't all be shut down from this side?"

He nodded. "It takes someone on each side with a security badge to shut the whole thing down. Even the circuits controlling the sensor pads are on opposite sides of the grid, so you can't even hack both sides from here." His expression turned intent. "See, although this set up is definitely intended to keep people like us out, it was designed just as much to keep people _in_."

"That sounds ominous." Trish's throat had gone dry. She was about to ask another question when the front set of lasers winked out.

"Hey!"

"Front end's down," Gambit confirmed before she could say anything else. By the disassembled remains of the sensor pad, Bobby was putting some tools away in his backpack, as well as getting others out.

Gambit set his own pack next to Bobby's, then reached up and removed the communicator from his ear. He set it down on top of the pack. Then he returned to the center of the tunnel where he went through the same odd process of checking the locations of the walls and ceiling as he'd used before.

Trish watched him with a strange knot of foreboding in her stomach. "So now what?"

A flicker of apprehension crossed Cyclops' face, quickly buried. "Now Gambit gets to show off his acrobatic skills," he said dryly, "and we'll all get to hear about it for the next couple of years."

On Trish's far side, Wolverine snorted, sounding amused. She couldn't imagine what there might be to be laughing about.

She lowered her voice. "Through _that_?" She still held the specialized field glasses in her hands, though she didn't need to look through them again to know that anyone trying to get through the remaining lasers would get sliced into bloody little ribbons.

"It's not quite as crazy as it seems," Cyclops said. "He's been practicing this run for weeks." His tone dipped ever-so-slightly. "He usually makes it."

"And if he doesn't?"

Cyclops' expression disappeared completely. "Then the alarms go off and we turn tail and run, Ms. Tilby. There won't be anything else we can do."

Trish stared at him, trying to decide if the statement meant what she thought it meant. Beside her, Wolverine fingered the stock of his assault rifle, his gaze distant, and she decided it probably did. A bullet from a friend would probably be a mercy if it came down to that.

"Cyke—" Rogue's voice came across the communication net, sounding small and frightened. "Is he offline yet?"

Cyclops cut his gaze toward Gambit, who appeared to be completely absorbed in finding a certain, specific spot on the floor in which to stand. The other man kept making minute readjustments, and Trish wondered if he was scared.

Cyclops turned away from the scene. "Yeah," he told Rogue.

There was a short paused. "You'd tell me if…" she trailed off, and Cyclops closed his eyes, a deep furrow appearing between his brows.

He nodded and reopened his eyes. "Of course."

She blew out her breath in a long, shaky sigh, clearly audible across the communication link. "Okay."

Trish forgot to breathe as Gambit tensed, rising up onto his toes exactly like a gymnast getting ready to begin a tumbling run. She couldn't tear her eyes away as he took off at a sprint toward the laser field, but in her peripheral vision she noted that both Bobby and Storm had turned their heads, unable to watch.

At the edge of the field, Gambit flew into an arcing, twisting set of flips and handsprings. At first Trish couldn't fathom why anyone would try to move so _fast_ through the overlapping lasers, but then she realized he had to have the energy—rotational energy or angular momentum or whatever it was called—to fling himself over the wall at the back.

Trish's heart jumped into her throat as he leapt for the top of the wall. At first it looked like one of those extreme soccer moves—feet over head, nearly in a flip—but then he flattened his body out parallel to the floor and pulled his arms and legs in like an ice skater going into a tremendously fast scratch spin.

Spinning like that, he crossed the top of the wall of lasers, through the narrow gap at the top. He unwound as he fell toward the floor on the other side, landing in a three-point crouch on the far side with the fingers of one hand braced against the floor and the other flung wide for balance.

Only then did Trish notice the bright splash of red across the ceiling. She looked over at Gambit to discover a trail of blood dripping from his upraised arm. It splattered on the floor, brilliant against the pristine surface.

For a moment, no one moved. Then Cyclops shook himself and stepped forward. "Gambit?"

"I'm all right," the other man answered. He rose from his crouch, tucking the injured arm against his side.

"You're bleeding."

"T'ank you, Captain Obvious." He walked over to the second sensor pad and began pulling things out of his various pockets. He appeared to have no trouble using the hand on his injured side. "Y' wan' tell m' wife I'm okay before she dies o' fright?" Clamping a couple of the tools between his teeth, he went to work on the pad's casing.

His comment sparked laughter from several X-Men, which Trish figured was probably enough to reassure Rogue. Even Cyclops smiled, looking chagrined.

"Did ya hear that, darlin'?" Wolverine asked Rogue a moment later.

"Ah heard his voice," the young woman answered, her voice thick. "How bad is it?"

Wolverine looked toward Gambit, his gaze flicking to the steady stream of blood trailing from the man's elbow as he worked. "Nothin' serious. Gonna need a field dressing, an' probably some stitches once we get home."

Rogue seemed to accept that and fell silent.

Curious, Trish raised the nearly-forgotten field glasses to her eyes once more. Whatever it took to override the sensors didn't take very long with Bobby working on this side and Gambit on the far one. The laser field disappeared, leaving multicolored afterimages sprinkled across her vision.

Bobby was the first X-Man across the gap. He gave Gambit a hug that fell somewhere in between friendly congratulations and brotherly affection, and then handed him his backpack. The rest of the group followed, most offering some kind of kudos of their own. Trish found it interesting that Gambit looked more than a little nonplussed at their reaction, as if they had taken him by surprise.

As the furor died down, Wolverine dug out a small first aid kit, and Gambit submitted to the doctoring without comment. His brush with one of the lasers had cut a deep gash in the outside of his arm, a few inches above the elbow.

Trish wandered over to where Cyclops stood, his gaze fixed on the far door. He acknowledged her approach with a small nod.

"Well, we've officially broken in to a prime sentinels final assembly plant," he said. He glanced down at her, his gaze inscrutable. "Now comes the interesting part."

Author's note: We're officially crossing the 200,000 word mark with this chapter, so I just wanted to take a moment to thank everyone who has left me reviews. Authors live on feedback, as I'm sure you know, and you all deserve a lot of the credit for what this story has become. You've inspired me, informed me, and made me look at the characters in ways I never would have on my own. I'd also like to officially thank my betas, Neko and Protégé Moi, for their tireless efforts and willingness to listen to me rant. Ladies, you're the best.


	43. Chapter 43

Chapter 43

Trish stood with her back to the tunnel door while Gambit and Bobby repeated the process to disarm the security measures. She'd deliberately placed her body to block the camera's view of their actions. She suspected it was the only way she would get to keep the segment.

She kept her voice low as she aimed her words directly toward the camera lens. "We are now right outside the manufacturing center. Behind this door lies the heart of Operation: Zero Tolerance's Prime Sentinels program."

"Got it," Bobby said quietly behind her. There was a brief rustle as the two men repacked their tools, and then both rose to their feet behind her.

Wolverine and Bishop moved forward, their weapons in their hands. Wolverine waved at Trish and her cameraman to get back.

Obediently, Trish edged along the wall as Eddie backed up, trying to stay in the frame but off to one side so the camera could focus on the door. Her stomach tied itself in knots as Gambit pulled the door open on Wolverine's quick count. _This is it. _

Crouched low, Bishop and Wolverine swung out into the hallway in opposite directions, rifles held ready. After a moment, Wolverine gestured for the rest to join them.

Trish found herself in yet another plain, institutional hallway running perpendicular to the tunnel they'd just left. Directly ahead, glass windows laced with crosshatched reinforcing filaments looked in on a large square room that was lined floor-to-ceiling with rows of stainless steel drawers. A wider-than-standard door allowed access from the room on the far side. The floor was covered in white ceramic tiles and several metal gurneys sat at odd angles in the middle of the otherwise empty floor. It looked alarmingly like a morgue.

"What's in there?" Trish asked Cyclops.

He shrugged. "No clue. We have structural plans for this area, but nothing about the interiors." He met her gaze. "To a degree we're now at your disposal, Ms. Tilby. Let us know what you want to see and we'll try to make it happen."

"Let's start in there, then," she said and nodded toward the room. The door lay directly across from the one they'd entered through, which would make the process of wheeling those gurneys from the tunnel into the room relatively simple.

Cyclops turned to Gambit. "Objections?"

Gambit shook his head. "Non. Might as well look. We've got t' find de air returns anyway."

He and Bobby made short work of the door, which had one of the ubiquitous black sensor pads beside it, and soon they were inside. Their footsteps echoed loudly on the tiles, making Trish wince.

With Eddie in tow, she walked over to the bank of burnished stainless steel drawers and reached for a random handle, only to have Cyclops slap her hand away.

"_Don't_ touch anything unless you've cleared it with them." He nodded toward Bobby and Gambit, who had their heads together examining another of the drawers.

Trish rubbed the back of her hand, embarrassed by her slip. "Right. Sorry."

Gathering her composure she turned to face the camera once again. "Well, we're now inside." She gestured to the bank of wide metal drawers. "This is the first room we've come to, and I don't know if it's more or less than I expected. Right now we're waiting for confirmation that it's safe to open these drawers without setting off any alarms."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Gambit nod. "They're clean," he said. "Open anyt'ing y' want."

At that, Cyclops reached for the drawer Trish had chosen and pulled it open. It slid out in a scrabbling of ungreased ball bearings. Warm air washed over her, smelling faintly of disinfectant and urine. Trish stared, momentarily at a loss for words.

A body lay on the extending metal slab. It was a man, naked and nearly hairless. Both his head and his chest had been shaved clean. She'd known going in that she would find people in here—if OZT was making their sentinels out of ordinary citizens there would have to be—but it was still a shock to see.

She looked up at the camera, uncertain what to say. A voice in the back of her mind commented on how perfect the shot was—she and Cyclops standing side by side with the body laid out in front of them.

Cyclops reached out to lay two fingers against the man's carotid artery.

"He's alive," he said, his voice tight. "Breathing is really slow—he must be sedated."

"A drug-induced coma is most likely," Hank said over the communication link.

"Can we wake him up?" Joseph asked. He stared at the man, his blue eyes filled with horror.

Hank's voice echoed solemnly in their ears. "Without knowing the drugs being used to keep him comatose—no. But even if we knew that and had the proper counter agents on hand, the process would take hours."

Shaking herself into motion, Trish backed up and yanked on the next drawer in line. It slid open to reveal another body, similar to the first. The third one held a woman.

"Are you getting this?" she asked her camera man in a voice that didn't sound like her own.

"Yeah," Eddie answered. He sounded as strange as she did.

"I don't see any scars." Wolverine came up beside them, his expression carefully guarded.

Cyclops looked down at the comatose people. "No. This is probably just a staging area." He stepped back. "Let's go. There's nothing we can do for them here."

Trish looked into the camera once again. "If anyone watching this broadcast can identify any of these people, please let us know. There's a link to my email on the FreedomNet site." A thought struck her. "And call your local law enforcement agency. Let them know that OZT is holding someone you know prisoner here in their Virginia plant."

Nodding to Cyclops, she stepped away. With expressions of regret, the X-Men slid the drawers closed. Cyclops gestured for Gambit and Bobby to take them through the door at the back of the room. Trish agreed with his choice. The door had obviously been designed to take the gurneys through, and following the bodies was probably the fastest way to get to where they wanted to go.

The next room looked like something out of a modern-day Frankenstein movie. Trish hunched her shoulders, suppressing a shiver. This room, too, was lined with the same white ceramic tiles and filled with a tangle of laboratory paraphernalia. Three doors led from the room, one on each wall.

Trish found a spot near the middle of the room where Eddie could capture both her and most of the equipment arrayed around her.

"This room lies directly beyond the one where those people lie comatose—imprisoned by OZT and destined for what can only be described as a horrendous fate."

She gestured to the tangle of glass and stainless steel nearby. "Here you can clearly see four bays, each approximately the right size to wheel a gurney into." Each bay was lined with an identical set of equipment, the most notable of which was a pair of tall, clear glass tanks.

Trish pointed to the tanks. "I have no idea what these substances might be." One of each pair was filled with a transparent liquid that could easily have been water or saline. The other contained a viscous substance that reminded her strongly of poppy seed salad dressing. It was a dirty yellow in color and contained streaks of black that appeared to be made of many tiny granules in suspension.

She gestured for Eddie to focus in on the yellow fluid. "But that doesn't look like anything I'd want to have injected into my arm." She pointed to the tray of phlebotomy equipment sat ready beside each pair of tanks, sealed in the sterile bags she recognized from other hospital stories she'd done. She saw several large gauge needles along with an array of smaller ones, cotton balls, gauze and bandages.

A folded, dog-eared piece of paper lay on top of one of the trays, and curious, Trish went to examine it.

"There's an air return," Bobby said as she was reaching for the paper. He indicated a large grille set into the wall on their left at floor level. Around Trish, the rest of the X-Men spread out, examining the room and its contents.

Bobby knelt and began removing the screws holding the vent in place. Gambit sank into a crouch nearby, setting his pack on the floor in front of him. He pulled out four complex-looking metallic disks, each about the size of a small dessert plate, but thicker. After a quick examination which, Trish noted, he did entirely by touch, he tucked all four into a couple of pockets on the front of his uniform that looked like they'd been designed for just that purpose.

Trish picked up the piece of paper she'd spied and unfolded it. Her stomach twisted savagely as she read. One of the technicians who used this room had written himself a set of instructions, including a couple of hand-drawn diagrams showing the proper injection sites for the various substances they were using.

"Cyclops, come look at this." She motioned him over then held the paper up for the camera. In terms of evidence, it was pure gold. "This room is where they introduce the nannites. It looks like they inject them both into the blood stream and directly into the spinal column." Turning the paper around again she traced the diagrams with a finger, trying to puzzle out the names of the various pharmaceuticals from the technician's abbreviations.

"That's an immunosuppressive," she said, tapping one name. She wasn't certain what the others might be.

Cyclops took the paper when she offered it, his gaze narrowing as he scanned its contents. "Beast will want to see this," he said eventually and handed it back to her.

Nodding, Trish folded the paper up and tucked it into a pocket on her cargo pants. Her heart hammered in her chest, a combination of nerves and excitement.

Cyclops turned toward the far side of the room where Gambit now lay on the ground on his back, head and shoulders inside the air return shaft. Trish momentarily wished she'd been paying more attention. The shaft couldn't have been more than about two feet by three, and she wasn't entirely certain how he'd managed to squeeze his shoulders into such a narrow space.

"Is that going to work?" Cyclops asked the other man.

"Should," came the muffled response.

Cyclops glanced at his watch. "We need to get the clock started as soon as possible."

Gambit didn't answer. Instead, he slithered deeper inside the vent, making remarkably little noise.

Trish watched until his toes had disappeared, then looked up at Cyclops. "What clock?"

The X-Men's field leader gave her a piercing stare. "We don't dare go very far inside this place until the sentinels have been dealt with." He nodded toward the far wall and the vent Gambit had disappeared into. "He's going to place gas canisters in one of the central air exchanges that will release a neuro-paralyzing agent and hopefully disable anything in this place with nannites inside it."

Trish absorbed that with interest, wondering if Hank had been the one to develop the paralyzing agent for them. Except that Bobby had said he no longer had a lab.

She pursed her lips as she looked up at Cyclops. "So who created the neuro-paralyzer for you?"

His expression turned wary. "That's classified."

Trish raised an eyebrow. "Classified as in government, or classified as in you don't want to tell me?" SHIELD had moved in to protect Warren Worthington. Could the government be quietly supporting the X-Men in other ways? She wasn't certain what such a paradigm shift might mean in the long term but it was most definitely newsworthy.

Unfortunately, Cyclops' only response was a flat stare and Trish swallowed a surge of frustration.

"Yo, Cyke." Wolverine stood beside one of the doors that led out of the room. This one was located in the wall opposite the one with the vent. Unlike the door at the back of the room, which was oversized to accommodate the gurneys, the two doors on either side of the room were of ordinary width. "It don't look like there's any security on these doors." He indicated the door he stood by, as well as the identical one opposite it. "I'd like ta take a look on the far side while we're waitin'."

Cyclops cocked his head, considering, and then nodded. "Get Iceman to verify the doors are clean. And take Bishop with you." He turned to Storm, who had quietly been going through the contents of the various cabinets and storage containers in the room.

"Anything?" he asked her.

She shook her head. "No, nothing."

Cyclops sighed, looking vaguely disappointed. "Okay, then why don't you and Psylocke take the other side."

Storm acknowledged him with a graceful nod, and she and the other woman headed toward the appropriate door.

"What was she looking for?" Trish wanted to know.

Cyclops didn't look at her. "Records. Anything with names or dates on it that might help identify the people OZT has done this to."

Trish just nodded. Such information would be the mother lode. Legal action could be based on something like that—criminal charges of a severity to render Worthington's civil suit superfluous.

Cyclops raised his gaze toward the ceiling. "Status, Gambit?"

Over the communication link, she heard the other man grunt. "Workin' on it." He sounded out of breath.

"How much longer?"

"Awhile."

Trish saw Cyclops' lips thin. "Could you be more specific?" he asked sharply.

"Sure t'ing, Cyke." When Gambit's voice came back across the link, it was filled with biting sarcasm. "Let me jus' stop a minute an' look at m' watch."

For a moment Cyclops' expression darkened like he was going to get truly angry, but then the expression gave way. "Fine. Just let me know as soon as those canisters are set." He reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Gambit didn't answer.

In the meantime, Bobby had apparently given his okay to the two groups getting ready to move through the doors on the sides of the room. Trish dithered for a moment then motioned for Eddie to follow her toward Wolverine and Bishop.

The two men went through the door in a practiced rush, weapons ready. Trish followed more slowly and found herself in a somewhat barren-looking room. A row of deep stainless steel sinks lined one wall. A table pushed up against the opposite wall held three squat devices that looked a bit like toaster ovens. She identified them as autoclaves after a moment. Two additional doors led out of the room—one directly across from where Trish had entered and the other to her right. She was beginning to think the place was laid out like a giant warren.

"Sterilization room," Wolverine said, his tone brusque. "Not gonna find anything useful in here."

Feeling vaguely disappointed, Trish had to agree. They returned to the room with the nannites, only to find Cyclops standing in the open doorway on the far side. He gestured to Trish when he saw her. His gaze had gone hard.

"You're going to want to see this, Ms. Tilby."

Trish hurried over with Eddie on her heels. Cyclops held the door for them as she and Eddie stepped cautiously inside.

The room contained a giant walk-in freezer. Storm had the door open and condensation billowed out around her. The cold air struck Trish as she approached, making her shiver, but she forgot all such mundane concerns as soon as she got close enough to see the interior of the freezer.

It was full of bodies. _Dead_ bodies. They were wrapped in clear plastic and stacked haphazardly against the walls and on long shelves on either side of a narrow center aisle. Psylocke crouched next to one such pile, brushing frost from the plastic sheets to better see through them.

"I don't know if you can see this," Trish told the camera. She knelt down next to Psylocke, pointing toward the pile. "These are corpses." She stopped there, and instead listened as Psylocke described the condition of the bodies to Hank.

"It's quite possible that the introduction of nannites to the system is more traumatic than we had been led to believe," Hank responded after a moment. "OZT's use of immunosuppression drugs would point to the likelihood that the body would naturally view the nannites as an invasion of foreign entities and respond accordingly." He paused, and Trish could imagine him adjusting his glasses. "At least until they had overtaken the immune system itself."

"Do you know what killed them?" Trish found herself asking.

"Anaphylactic shock would be my first guess," Hank answered. "It is an aggressive immune reaction."

Trish repeated his answer for the camera then looked around. "This many?"

"Possibly," Hank sounded disturbed. "Or they were discarded as sentinel candidates for some other reason and OZT had no further use for them."

Trish bit her lip, feeling ill. She stared at the bodies. "How could this be happening and no one notice all these people going missing?" she demanded.

None of the X-Men had an answer for her. The silence that followed was so complete that Trish jumped when Gambit's voice rang in her ear.

"Canisters are set an' I'm on m' way back down."

"Acknowledged," Cyclops answered. He looked at his watch.

The X-Men quietly made their way back into the lab room. Eddie paused to check the camera lens—making sure the change in temperature hadn't fogged it—and then made another sweep of the interior of the freezer, pausing to zoom in on some of the bodies. Trish waited for him at the door and followed him back to the others once he was done.

Gambit was just sliding out of the vent when she entered the room. Bobby offered a hand to the other man to help him to his feet, which he accepted. Trish noted the tremor of fatigue that ran through Gambit's muscles at the action. Letting go of Bobby, he shook himself, all loose-limbed, and then did a few quick stretches. The dressing Wolverine had put on the gash in his arm had soaked through, though he didn't seem to notice. His knuckles, too, were bloodied, and Trish wondered just how difficult his climb through the air ducts had been.

"All right, everyone." With an indecipherable glance at Gambit, Cyclops moved to the front of the group. "We've got approximately twenty minutes before the paralyzer takes full effect, so let's take things slow."

"We movin' forward?" Wolverine asked.

Cyclops nodded. "Cautiously. We still don't know exactly how far away the sentinels can sense us."

Bishop and Wolverine took the lead once again as they moved into the next room. Gambit, she noted, had developed a slight limp. It was barely visible—just a hitch in his otherwise fluid gait.

Wolverine's low growl set the hairs on the back of Trish's neck to prickling. She ducked into the next room, tensed in anticipation, and found herself in a hospital ward. Two rows of beds lined the room, about half filled with patients. Familiar-looking racks sat by each bed, hung with bags of saline, and a small screen mounted over each showed heart traces and the like. The sheer normalness of the scene was enough to make Trish's skin crawl.

"Okay, this place is seriously starting to creep me out," Bobby said in an undertone.

Cyclops moved over to one of the occupied beds. "I guess these are the ones that survived the nannites." His hands twitched as if he wanted to reach out to the comatose man in the bed and then slowly closed into fists.

He glanced back at his team, his gaze hooded. "Let's keep moving."

Eddie paused to film each of the sleeping patients. They'd do a voice over, Trish decided, once again asking for anyone who could identify these people to send the information in. But for now, she just wanted to move forward and not look too closely at the still forms.

The door at the far end of the room let out onto a broad hallway running perpendicular to their current path. Pairs of swinging doors marched down the far side of the hall, each with large windows cut into them at eye-height.

Wolverine and Bishop quickly scouted down to the ends of the hall, glancing into each of the rooms they passed as they did so. Apparently seeing no one, they returned.

"They're surgical theatres," Wolverine said. Something in his voice made Trish take a second look at him. She had never seen the small man portray much emotion—his repertoire seemed to consist only of dangerous and angry—but she would swear she saw something like fear lurking in the depths of his denim-colored eyes. Though if even half of what she'd heard about the Weapon X program was true, she couldn't blame him. This place had to bring back some things he'd rather not remember.

Cyclops simply nodded. "We expected as much." Grim lines bracketed his mouth. "Let's keep going."

#-#-#-#

Rogue wandered the periphery of the tower, restlessly scanning the installation grounds. Nothing moved outside. The sporadic conversation of her teammates echoed in her ear, their voices reassuring despite the grim topic. Her mind kept flashing back to those terrifying moments of silence, not knowing whether Remy was alive or dead. The idea that it might simply _end_ with so many, many things left unresolved had left her trembling and shaken.

It wasn't even about the argument they'd had the day before. That had been trivial, stupid. No, it was the deeper questions that ate at her—the ones she was afraid to hear the answers to. The ones she knew she needed answers to if she and Remy were going to have any chance of being happy in whatever time they had together.

After double checking to make sure her communicator was muted, she turned toward her mother. "Can ah ask ya somethin'?" she began hesitantly.

Mystique didn't look up from where she studied the grounds through her rifle sight, but Rogue saw her eyebrows flicker. "Of course."

Rogue chewed on her bottom lip, but then forced herself to go on. "What was it like when you an' Remy were… together?"

If the question surprised Mystique, she gave no sign. She didn't move, and her pupilless gaze remained steady through the sight. "In what way?"

Rogue hunched her shoulders, her stomach churning. "Ah don't know. What did ya like ta do together? How long did it last?" She bit her lip. "Was it… serious?"

Mystique straightened abruptly. She turned toward Rogue, her expression sharpening. "I'm sorry, my dear. Did I somehow give you the impression Remy and I had a _relationship_?"

Anger stirred in Rogue's gut. "Y'all were sleepin' together. What would you call it?"

"Sex," Mystique said reasonably.

Rogue fought to keep her emotions off her face. She couldn't let her mother see how much that one word hurt. But, strangely, Mystique didn't press her advantage. Instead she set her rifle aside and turned to face Rogue fully, her expression once again neutral.

"Maybe I should explain a few things," she said, gesturing for Rogue to come sit beside her.

Uncertain what to make of her mother's uncharacteristic expansiveness, Rogue nevertheless crossed the room and seated herself on the edge of the counter a few feet from Mystique. She couldn't stand to face her directly, so she kept her attention focused outside the tower on the empty night landscape.

Mystique brushed absently at a smudge on her uniform. "I took Raven Darkholme's identity because, at the time, I needed someplace safe to hide for a while where I could make some contacts in the intelligence community."

"You killed her—the real Raven." The knowledge was a little pit of dismay somewhere deep inside Rogue.

Mystique nodded. "Indeed. But taking over her life required that I not change anything for a while, to avoid drawing attention. So I had to wear her yuppie suits, and attend her horrid dancercize classes—" She shuddered in mock disgust, but then a slow smile spread across her face. "_And_ it meant keeping her pretty boy toy."

Keeping a firm grip on her emotions, Rogue raised an eyebrow. "Ah hope ya never called Remy that ta his face."

Mystique laughed merrily. "Ah, my dear. I have to admit I made a few… assumptions… where he was concerned. He was so painfully young, and that face…" She shook her head, her expression quirking with sly humor. "Imagine my surprise when I discovered he could actually use multi-syllabic words without hurting himself."

Rogue nearly stuttered a laugh and had to clear her throat to cover her reaction. Strangely, the pain inside her had begun to ease a little. She looked down at her hands.

"Remy told me ya would have killed him if ya'd guessed he knew ya weren't the original Raven."

Mystique's eyebrows arched sharply. "Oh, so you two have talked about this."

She nodded. "A little."

Mystique's expression cleared. "Well, as you can see, there's really not much to tell. I was interested in not being discovered. He was interested in staying alive." She shrugged. "Not to mention wheedling a few Pentagon contracts out of me—or Raven, if you prefer—in the process. It was never personal."

She cocked her head. "Really, dear, did you honestly think I was a threat to your relationship?"

#-#-#-#

Scott Summers walked a short ways ahead of his team, his boots echoing hollowly on the metal floor. Around him, transformed prime sentinels stood frozen and Scott imagined it was hatred he saw burning in their white eyes. There had to be several hundred of them arrayed in neat rows in the cavernous room. These weren't the ones that passed as ordinary people. Instead, they were dressed in dark, uniform-like jumpsuits, and each had a shock of spiky, pure white hair.

Scott wasn't sure what prompted him to tempt fate by walking between the still forms. Maybe he just needed to prove to himself that he could—that OZT's most dangerous weapons couldn't intimidate him.

Three stories above him, large, round industrial lights hung from metal frames that stretched the entire width of the room. The room was so massive, however, that it seemed to swallow the light, leaving the floor surprisingly dim. A section of the ceiling was clear of lights and looked like it might slide apart to allow the sentinels to fly out.

"Are you sure that's safe?" he heard Trish ask from behind him.

"The sentinels are programmed to kill mutants on sight," Scott answered over his shoulder. "The only reason these haven't moved is because they can't." Without direction from their micro-computers, whose commands were carried by the nannites, the sentinels could do nothing.

Slowly, the X-Men fanned out behind him. Distantly, he was aware of Trish speaking to the camera, her voice crisp and professional as she described this last stop on their journey. They had seen the evolution of the sentinels from human being to these, and soon the rest of the world would share their horrible knowledge.

A short ways away, Wolverine's claws emerged with their familiar _snikt_ sound.

"Beast, what's the best way ta kill these things?" Logan asked.

Scott turned sharply. "That's not why we're here," he reminded the other man. Not that the idea didn't have merit. The more sentinels they could destroy, the fewer would patrol the skies. But this was just a drop in the bucket. OZT cranked sentinels out at a frightening rate. Even small towns were starting to report sentinels on patrol along their highways and main streets.

Wolverine's expression didn't change. "We've got eight minutes before we have ta get out o' here. Might as well take out as many as we can."

"As long as the nannites are paralyzed, the sentinels cannot heal." Beast's deep bass echoed in their ears. "Anything that kills the body within our eight-minute window will work." He paused then added diffidently, "Slitting their throats would probably be the most efficient."

"Copy that," Logan said. Raising his claws, he moved purposefully toward the sentinel nearest him.

Scott almost stopped him. The idea revolted him at some deep, fundamental level. He knew these things were no longer people—that it would not technically be murder to kill them. But something about their defenselessness ticked at him, evoking his pity.

A faint, high-pitched whine was the only warning they had. Scott caught a glimpse of motion high up on the nearest wall as a small iris opened and the nose of some kind of weapon emerged. All around the room, additional gun ports repeated the action.

"Get down!" Scott shouted. He spun toward his team, frantically waving them back as the laser cannons opened fire. The door they'd come through sliced shut in a hiss of pneumatics, closing off their escape route.

Instinctively, Scott ducked behind the nearest sentinel. The X-Men scattered, diving for the ground. The cannons tracked their motion, invisible beams stitching black scars across the metal floor and sending up gouts of acrid smoke in their wake. Hapless sentinels collapsed as the lasers cut through them.

Trish Tilby shrieked in pain and fell to her knees. She curled up in a fetal ball, still screaming.

"Bobby, blow de charges!" Gambit yelled. He remained on his feet, dancing between the sentinels as multiple laser cannons tracked him. He could see the beams, Scott realized, and was making himself a target to draw as much of the fire as he could.

Bobby scrambled away from the bloodied hulk of a fallen sentinel and the wisps of smoke marching across the floor toward him. "But the secondaries—"

Gambit paused for the barest of moments. "_Do what I tell you, t'ief!_" he snarled and darted away from the deadly rain of lasers.

The sentinel Scott crouched behind lurched, its head disintegrating in a red spray. He dove away. "Abort!" he yelled into his communicator. "They know we're here. Rogue, Cannonball, Mystique, get out of there!"

He heard their acknowledgments over the comm link as Bobby dug into one of the pockets of his uniform and emerged with a small remote, which he immediately detonated.

A second later the lights went out, plunging the room into total darkness, and the high-pitched whine of the cycling lasers suddenly cut out. In the abrupt silence that followed, Scott distinctly heard the cannons spin down.

Scott had time to draw a single, deep breath before a violent, multi-directional rumble shook the building. _Explosions_, he identified it instinctively.

"What did you do?" Scott demanded in the general direction Gambit had been moving. He could see nothing in the absolute blackness.

"We put explosive charges on the power conduits on our way in." Gambit sounded eerily calm. From the direction of his voice, Scott thought he saw two faint points of red.

Scott marshaled his scattered thoughts. He could still hear Trish whimpering, but he couldn't deal with her quite yet. The team came first. "What about backup power?"

"Took out primary and auxiliary," Gambit answered. "De power's not comin' back up any time soon."

Scott climbed to his feet. "Okay, then our first priority is to get out of here. Give me status—who's hurt?"

A bright star of light appeared as Bobby turned on a small lamp attached to the shoulder of his uniform. In the illumination it shed, Scott located each of his team, verifying for himself that they were all still alive. Wolverine knelt beside Trish, holding one of her wrists in a tight grip as her cameraman braced her from behind. Blood covered what remained of her left hand. It looked like a laser beam had sheared away about three-quarters of it, leaving only her thumb and a portion of her index finger. Trish shook violently, very obviously in shock.

"Looks like she's the only one," Logan said. His voice was grim. "The laser cauterized most of this. She'll be okay for a little while."

Scott turned to Remy, his stomach twisting. "Gambit, let's get this door open again." He gestured toward the door behind them.

"Won' do any good," Gambit responded as he approached. "As soon as we cut de power, de secondary systems kicked in." He moved oddly, Scott noted, as if he were testing each step, uncertain what gruesome obstacles might be in his path.

Gambit gave him a keen stare. "Those explosions y' heard were de tunnels collapsin'."

Dismay hit Scott like a blow. "Are you saying we're trapped in here?"

He nodded. "An' we've got about six minutes before de rest o' de sentinels wake up."


	44. Chapter 44

Chapter 44

Rogue acknowledged the command to get out and turned to her mother, her heart pounding. Mystique grabbed Rogue's rifle and tossed it to her, then slung her own over her shoulder.

"Let's go." Mystique started toward the stairs.

She'd only gone a couple of steps when Rogue heard it—a deep _whump-whump-whump_ vibration she could feel through the soles of her feet.

"Beast!" she called into her communicator. "We've got helicopters incomin'—at least two by the sound."

Rogue followed her mother down the stairs, their footsteps pounding hollowly. They were woefully under-armed to take on helicopters, and they both knew it.

"The Blackbird's sensors aren't detecting anything," Beast's voice rumbled in her ear. "Just hang on. I'm on my way." Rogue could imagine him bounding about the aircraft as he unhooked the cable running their pirated security signal and prepared to take off.

Rogue burst out of the tower door just behind Mystique. The floodlights along the roofline of the factory had gone out, she noted in surprise, plunging the grounds into moonlit darkness. The sound of the helicopters had grown deafeningly loud and she turned to see two Huey military-style helicopters flying in low over the front gate, their round noses tipped down and their landing lights illuminating bright circles beneath them. She could see men in the dark combat uniforms of OZT positioned in the open doorways on both sides of the helicopters.

_They must have come up the road, flying on the deck to avoid our radar_, she decided as the two aircraft slowed to a stop over the nearer parking lot. Her gaze darted to the guard gate, but she didn't see Sam.

Rogue didn't notice the small missile racks mounted on the sides of each helicopter until a pair of white contrails emerged from the bird in the lead. One veered off toward the guard tower on Rogue's right and the other shot straight toward the one from which she and Mystique had just emerged.

"Down!" Mystique roared. They both dove to the ground as the missile slammed into the structure behind them. The tower exploded in a ball of fire, cement dust and glass shards.

The blast wave slammed into Rogue's prone form, momentarily stunning her. It felt like a giant had kicked her in the kidneys. Pieces of shrapnel bit into her uniform, most of which was deflected by her body armor, but here and there she could feel the fiery sting as something found her skin.

Gasping, she shoved herself to her feet. Just ahead of her, Mystique scrambled toward the drainage ditch a few yards away and Rogue followed. She tumbled over the lip and down into the relative safety of the small gully. Gunfire erupted in the distance. Rogue crawled to the edge of the ditch and cautiously raised her head to peer over.

The first helicopter sat on its skids in the middle of the parking lot and OZT soldiers poured out of it. Cannonball fired at them through the window of the guard shack, his muzzle flash flickering brightly against the darkness. One soldier dropped to a knee beside the helicopter to return fire while the others crouched low as they ran toward a couple of parked cars that would provide them some cover.

The second helicopter remained about ten feet off the ground. Its nose swung toward the remaining guard tower, which it destroyed with a missile. Rogue closed her eyes and looked away before the explosion could ruin her night vision. When she looked back, the helicopter was turning midair to point its nose toward the guard shack.

_He's still got one missile on the rack_, she realized with a sinking sense of horror.

Beside her, Mystique already had her rifle out. Rogue rushed to copy her. They had to take out that helicopter before it could fire on Cannonball.

Unlimbering her rifle, Rogue took aim over the lip of earth that shielded them. Her hands shook with adrenaline and she had to take several deep breaths to still them. She sighted in on the airborne helicopter just as Mystique fired beside her. She heard the shot _ping_ off the rotor works. Mystique cursed.

Rogue ignored her. The helicopter was broadside to them, its nose pointed toward the distant guard shack. Rogue found the pilot and framed him in her sights. Exhaling slowly, she pulled the trigger.

With a hiss and a burst of white smoke, the fourth missile leapt away from its launch rack. The rifle kicked in Rogue's hands, and through the sights she saw the pilot jerk. His hands fell away from the helicopter's controls.

She raised her head just in time to see the missile slam into the guard shack, splintering it in a massive ball of fire.

"_Sam!_" In the harsh light cast by the explosion she could see a dark form writhing on the ground a dozen feet from where the shack had stood. His wheat-colored hair stood out against the surrounding blackness.

Mystique's hand clamped down on her shoulder before she could get her feet under her. "Don't be stupid," she hissed.

A ways beyond Sam, the second helicopter tilted crazily and then slammed down onto the pavement on its skids. Soldiers jumped down from the deck, ducking beneath the still-spinning rotor blades.

Cold fury swamped Rogue. Lifting her rifle, she took aim at the first soldier she found and fired. The man pitched forward and lay still.

Alarmed shouts filled the air as the soldiers scuttled away from the helicopter, trying to figure out which direction the shot had come from. Rogue picked a new target and pulled the trigger, but her shot missed.

She ducked back down into the gully to reload. Beside her, Mystique fired two more times and Rogue heard an answering scream. Gunfire stuttered from the direction of the soldiers along with more shouts. A bullet whizzed overhead, but she didn't think the soldiers had gotten a solid bead on their location yet.

Mystique dropped down beside her daughter to reload as well. "Both pilots are down, so at least we won't have to worry about those helicopters flying over our heads."

Rogue nodded as she slid the fourth round into her rifle's internal magazine and then locked the bolt into place. "Sam's in a bad way out there. One of us is gonna have ta go get him."

Mystique shook her head sharply. "There's no cover between us and him," she mumbled past the rifle round she'd clamped between her lips as she reloaded. "It's suicide."

Rogue rose onto her knees and braced her rifle against the lip of the drainage ditch. "X-Men don't leave people behind, Momma," she said as she settled the stock against her shoulder. Through the sights, she searched the outlines of the helicopters and the nearby cars for her quarry. A kind of weighty determination settled in her stomach. "Once we've taught OZT's boys ta keep their heads down, ah can go get him."

Rogue saw one of the soldiers rise from behind a mid-sized sedan to cautiously survey the scene. She forced herself to take the extra second to make sure she had him squarely in her sights and then fired. The man's head jerked back, spraying blood. He collapsed backwards, disappearing from sight. The soldier next to him immediately ducked back behind the car.

"That's right," Rogue muttered, grimly pleased. "Better hide, boys. Ya stick ya nose out, ah'm gonna shoot it off."

Mystique made an approving noise as she, too, took aim over the edge of the ditch. "I like the way you think, my dear."

#-#-#-#

Scott stared at Gambit as the reality of the situation slowly sank in. He wanted to get angry, he really did. But as much as he felt like they'd just jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire, he had to admit they wouldn't have survived OZT's kill zone for long.

He grimaced. Trading immediate death for death in six minutes wasn't much, but at least it gave them a chance.

"Beast!" he called into his communicator. "Our route out of the factory has been cut off. We need an immediate evac before these sentinels come to." He looked up, but there wasn't enough light to see the retracting doors in the ceiling.

"Understood," Hank answered. In the background, Scott could hear the Blackbird's engines spooling up.

He looked over at Remy. "Gambit, can we get those doors open before Beast gets here?"

Gambit shook his head. "Non. Not from here an' in de time we've got."

Scott glanced upward once again. "Did you hear that, Beast? You'll have to shoot your way in."

"Copy that, Cyclops. I'm taking off now." The background whine of the engines became a full-throated roar.

Wolverine rose from where he knelt by Trish and stalked across the distance separating him from Scott. "Unless we want a swarm o' sentinels following us outta here, we'd better take down as many of 'em as we can," he said as he approached. His claws slid into place.

Scott simply nodded and unsheathed the military-style utility knife on his belt. The remaining X-Men gathered around, their expressions grim, and Scott wondered what he could possibly tell them.

He cleared his throat. "I know none of you signed up for this—"

"None of us signed up ta get dead, either." Wolverine raised one hand, claws flashing. "It's just something that's got ta be done."

Beside him, Psylocke nodded and drew her own knife. "How do you want to do this, Cyclops?" she asked, gesturing to the geometric lines of motionless sentinels that disappeared off into the darkness.

Scott turned to look, his stomach clenching hard enough to make him nauseous. But he was supposed to be their leader. He couldn't flinch now. "I guess, everyone take a row." The laser cannons had destroyed thirty or forty sentinels in their immediate area, but the rest remained on their feet, waiting. If he'd counted right when they entered, there had been twelve rows, each perhaps twenty sentinels deep.

Resolved, he turned and started toward the nearest of the still-standing sentinels. Wolverine and Psylocke moved off to his left, toward more distant rows.

"Come, Joseph," he heard Storm say. "We will take the far right." Her voice remained as calm and composed as ever, though he doubted her feelings matched.

Scott reached the first sentinel in his self-assigned row and paused. The sentinel stared impassively at him, motionless save for the flare of its nostrils as it breathed. Scott was grateful it had been a man when it was alive. That made it a little easier, at least.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he raised the knife and slashed it hard across the throat of the sentinel, making sure to get both the windpipe and the major arteries. Blood splattered across his uniform.

The sentinel collapsed, wheezing pitifully as it tried to breathe.

_Keep moving_, Scott instructed himself. From the far side of the room, he heard another body fall. Then more. He moved to the next sentinel and repeated the process. Viewed objectively, it was not nearly as gruesome as battling the Brood or the Skrulls, but somehow it felt worse. More personal.

He grimaced. These people had deserved better, and all the X-Men could give them was this quick, ignominious death.

He kept on. To his right, Gambit moved along the adjacent row, his thoughts sealed up behind an expressionless mask. His eyes, though… Scott sucked in his breath. His eyes were bleak and lifeless, like a trauma victim's, and Scott wondered what horror he was seeing. Remy had all but admitted he'd worked government-sponsored assassination contracts in the past, much like Logan. But where Logan's memories were fractured, leaving him with only disturbing remnants of the things he'd done, Remy remembered everything.

Scott made himself a mental note to make sure Jean cornered Gambit for at least some kind of psych evaluation, just to make sure they weren't going to lose the Guildmaster to PTSD or something similar. None of them were going to walk out of this without scars and she was the closest thing the team had to a councilor.

Scott reached the end of the row and turned to start down the next one in line. His hands were sticky with blood. The smell of death—both blood and bowels—filled the air and he found himself breathing in shallow gasps. Over the comm he followed the progress of Mystique and Rogue's efforts to keep OZT's soldiers pinned down. They sounded like they were holding their own for the moment.

"Cyclops, I have four sentinels on radar, approaching from the northeast." Beast's voice echoed in his ear. "Time to intercept is less than ten minutes."

Scott resisted the urge to curse as he cut the throat of another sentinel. He sidestepped the sudden cascade of blood and let the body fall. Given the two helicopters full of armed men, the appearance of sentinels had been a given. "What's your ETA?"

"Ninety seconds," Hank answered.

"Copy that." Scott glanced upward. The retracting door should be somewhere directly over his head. "Just give us a warning before you start shooting so we can get clear of the doors."

"Understood. Beast out."

Scott moved to the next sentinel. But before he could properly register that something wasn't right, the sentinel's arm shot out. Its hand closed around his throat, choking off his breath and sending stabbing pains through his neck.

Purely on instinct, he slashed hard at the sentinel's throat. His knife bit into the soft flesh, cutting deep until it scraped against bone. The sentinel didn't react or loosen its hold, even as its blood began to pour out of it.

Scott gagged, panic clawing at him. His lungs burned for air. He wrapped his free hand around the sentinel's forearm and buried the knife in its chest, hoping to hit its heart. Spots danced in front of his eyes.

A pair of hands grabbed hold of the sentinel's arm, stabbing a knife into the cluster of nerves in its wrist. The knife twisted and suddenly the sentinel let go. Scott staggered out of its grip. He doubled over, gasping and coughing as he sucked down a fresh lungful of air. The sentinel collapsed nearby, its arm still outstretched.

Gambit caught him before he could fall. "X-Men, fall back!" Remy shouted. He tugged Scott in the appropriate direction. "De sentinels are wakin' up!"

Scott straightened after a couple of steps. His throat felt like it was on fire, but he could breathe. The X-Men emerged out of the darkness, moving swiftly toward them. Wolverine was last, walking backward and firing short bursts from his automatic rifle at the indistinct shapes that stirred in the distance.

"Beast, how much longer?" Scott called, his voice scratchy. The effort of speaking sent him into another short coughing fit.

"I'm overhead now," Beast answered. "Are you clear?"

"Yes," Scott managed. They'd retreated to where they'd left Eddie and Trish. The cameraman had Trish on her feet, one arm wrapped around her waist to keep her upright and the other one clutching his camera to his chest. Trish held her ruined hand tucked up against her body, her other hand grasping the wrist. Her eyes were huge.

With a tremendous blast and the shriek of tortured metal, the Blackbird's lasers shredded the overhead doors. Huge pieces of the ceiling fell inward, landing in the middle of the cavernous floor with a resounding crash. The roar of the Blackbird's engines filled the air and the bright beams of the landing lights stabbed down into the room, illuminating the carnage. Then the image was gone as a cyclone of dust and particles obscured the view. The Blackbird descended on twin pillars of exhaust, filling the air with the smell of Shi'ar jet fuel.

Scott didn't think he'd ever seen such a welcome sight. The Blackbird settled to the ground just in front of the pile of debris left by its entrance. Hank had the ramp opening even before the aircraft's weight had settled on its landing gear.

"Move out." Scott waved his team forward.

They needed no further encouragement from him. They ran up the ramp, disappearing into the relative safety of the Blackbird's interior. Scott was last aboard. He made his way to the cockpit as the ramp resealed behind him and dropped into the copilot's seat. The Blackbird began to rise.

A shrill alarm immediately began to ring. The Blackbird shuddered. They were taking fire from at least one of the few remaining sentinels inside the facility. Scott checked the instruments.

"Shields are holding," he told Hank. "Get us out of here."

#-#-#-#

Rogue heard the Blackbird before she saw it and knew this would be the best chance she'd get. She shoved her rifle at her mother.

"Cover me."

Mystique flashed her a single, unreadable look and nodded. The Blackbird soared directly over their heads, less than a hundred feet in the air. This low, the sound of the engines was deafening and Rogue knew that at least for a moment all of the soldiers' attention would be focused upward.

She darted out of the gully and ran toward Cannonball's prone form. Between the roar of the airplane overhead and her own labored breathing, she doubted she'd be able to hear if anyone started shooting at her, but nothing hit her.

She dropped to her knees beside Sam. He was barely conscious, tossing his head from side to side in pain. Blood streaked his face from a laceration in his scalp, but it didn't look too serious. Her eyes traveled down him. His uniform appeared to be whole, except for the white end of bone that poked out of one thigh.

"C'mon, sugah, let's get ya out of here." Grunting in exertion, she pulled him into a sitting position and then shifted his weight up onto her shoulders. She staggered to her feet. He was _heavy_. For the barest moment she wished for her powers—strength, invulnerability and flight—but then she shoved the thought away. Right now she was just an ordinary woman and that would have to be enough.

Turning, she pushed herself into an unsteady run back toward the ditch. The Blackbird disappeared over the factory's roofline, and she could only hope that meant the rest of the X-Men would soon be safe.

A burst of gunfire sent her instinctively to her knees, tensed in anticipation of a bullet that didn't come. Something whistled by her head, the sound wrong for the lightweight .223 rounds fired by the soldiers and moving in the opposite direction. Behind her, a shrill yell told her Mystique's shot had found a target. Rogue shoved herself to her feet and staggered forward.

She tumbled into the shallow ditch, landing in a heap with Sam on top of her. The impact drove the air from her lungs and left her gasping. Mystique scrambled down beside her, her expression worried. She grabbed Sam's shoulders and helped Rogue move his limp form off of her.

"Are you shot?" Mystique demanded as Rogue climbed to her knees.

Rogue shook her head. Gunfire erupted again, and this time rounds bit into the lip of their gully, showering them with dirt. Both women ducked.

The roar of the Blackbird's engines grew louder overhead. Sudden, bright light washed over them. Rogue shielded her eyes to look up. She could barely make out the outline of the aircraft beyond the landing lights. As she watched, bright lances of reddish light speared down from above the Blackbird, striking it full on and making the airplane rock. The engines spooled up and down in an alarming counter-rhythm as they fought to keep the Blackbird level beneath the laser impacts.

_Sentinels_, Rogue thought with a lurch of fear.

"Rogue, we see you," Cyclops said in her ear. "We're setting down as close to you as we can."

Her stomach knotted at the obvious problem with that scenario. "Ya can't open the ramp, Cyke. It'll leave a hole in the shields."

"Copy that, Rogue. You're going to have to climb up through the nose gear wheel well. Just make it fast. Our shields can only hold out so long."

With a glance at her mother, Rogue reached for Sam's unconscious form. "We're on our way," she told Cyclops.

She and Mystique each slung one of Sam's arms across their shoulders and together they dragged him out of the ditch. Gunfire stuttered from the far side of the Blackbird. Rogue tried to ignore it as they ducked beneath the airplane. Hot exhaust swirled around them from the engines, making Rogue's eyes water. She grabbed the nose gear strut like it was a lifeline and looked upward. Through the tangle of mechanical pieces and wiring, she saw Bishop and Logan both reach a hand down toward her.

With Mystique's help, she managed to lift Sam high enough for the two X-Men to grab him under the armpits and pull him upward.

His weight had barely left her arms when Mystique let out a guttural cry and fell backwards, landing hard on her butt. She clapped both hands to her calf, blood spilling between her fingers. Another bullet _pinged _off the strut next to Rogue, making her flinch.

"Momma, come on!" Rogue reached down and grabbed Mystique by the arms, levering her to her feet. Mystique staggered, but kept her footing. She raised her arms, and Bishop and Logan immediately caught her wrists and dragged her upward into the airplane.

Not willing to wait, Rogue climbed up into the wheel well right behind her. More rounds sliced through the open space beneath the Blackbird and she heard the hiss of air as the nose wheel depressurized.

"Rogue!"

She reached up and felt hands close on her forearms. Logan and Bishop yanked her upward as if she weighed nothing. Something sharp scraped painfully across her hip as they dragged her into the cabin, dumping her unceremoniously on the floor.

"Go go go!" Bishop shouted toward the cockpit. Immediately the pitch of the engines increased as Cyclops took off. Rogue pressed her cheek against the cabin floor, feeling the vibrations all the way into her bones. The entire airplane tilted and shuddered under the sentinels' laser barrage.

After a moment of simply breathing, Rogue shoved herself to her feet. Her eyes instinctively sought out Remy. She found him kneeling beside Mystique, one hand clasped across the bullet wound in her calf as he ripped open a package of bandages with his teeth. For a minute Rogue thought her knees would buckle from sheer relief. Remy looked up as if feeling Rogue's gaze on him, and she saw a similar expression cross his face before he turned back to Mystique. Rogue forced herself away. It was enough just to know he was alive. Now wasn't the time for reunions, no matter how much she wanted to throw herself into his arms.

A short ways beyond Remy, Bobby and Joseph were laying Sam out on the med unit.

"Hank, we need you back here," Rogue yelled toward the cockpit as she staggered toward the back of the plane. Sam had gone an unhealthy pale color. She had to grab the back of a nearby seat to keep from being knocked off her feet as the Blackbird suddenly accelerated into forward flight. She didn't dare hope it meant they were about to break free of the sentinels pursuing them.

Storm rose and went to take Hank's place in the cockpit as the blue, furry mutant bounded through the cabin. Rogue saw him hesitate a few steps from the med unit, his attention drawn off to the side. His eyes widened in horror, his lips curling back from his pointed teeth in an unconscious snarl. She followed the direction of his gaze, taking in Trish's presence for the first time and the extent of her injuries. Psylocke had found a blanket to drape around her shoulders and was in the process of wrapping her hand with gauze.

Hank shook himself into motion and Rogue followed him, her heart squeezing.

#-#-#-#

"Cloaking field engaged," Scott told Storm with a small sense of relief. Red lights decorated the instrument panel, warning him that their problems were far from over. He executed several aerobatic maneuvers to gain some distance from the sentinels that pursued them. The two from the assembly facility had been joined by the four who'd come from someplace to the northeast, and Scott fully expected more to show up. OZT no doubt knew they would be heading for New York, even if they could no longer track them.

Storm turned her head to look at him. "The timing could not be better." Her eyebrows quirked expressively. "Our shields were down to four percent."

Scott simply nodded. The Blackbird had taken a beating, shields notwithstanding, but she'd held. Now he could turn his attention to their next challenge, which was getting down in New York in one piece. A yellow light winked insolently at him from the instrument panel, and with a sick twist in his stomach he realized it was the cloaking system caution light.

"Gambit," he called over his shoulder. "I could use your help up here as soon as you get a minute."

"_Ja_," Remy answered. Scott was momentarily confused until he heard Remy speaking to Mystique in German, which was apparently the easier language for her. He could tell from the tone of her voice that Mystique was in a fair amount of pain, though she sounded lucid enough.

It said a lot about how much strain Gambit was under if he was having trouble switching languages, Scott thought. But they were all little more than a hair away from coming apart. Regardless, he was confident the X-Men would hold it together for as long as they had to. They had never failed to rise to the occasion in all the years Scott had been leading them.

"What's up?" Remy asked as he appeared in the doorway leading to the cockpit. He wrapped one hand around the doorframe to steady himself, leaving bloody smears.

Scott waved toward the instrument panel. "We've lost vertical mode, which takes out our usual landing site in the city," he told the other man, his voice tight. "And the cloaking system is probably going to fail before we get there." He glanced up at Remy. "We need a new plan."

Gambit's expression flickered in ill-concealed dismay. "How many sentinels we got on our tail?"

"Six, at the moment." He made a sweep of his instruments. "But they'll no doubt alert the patrols around New York to our approach. We need a pretty long runway with a lot of open space so we don't hit anything." He lowered his voice. "This is likely to be a landing in name only."

"What about LaGuardia?" Storm asked. "They have runways, as well as their own fire department trained to deal with fuel spills and damaged aircraft."

Remy shook his head. "Only problem bein' we can't get off de tarmac. Airports have too much security f' de t'ieves t' get through on short notice."

"Something with a large parking lot, then," Ororo said. "A mall or a business park."

Scott nodded. "That would work," he said. Given the pre-dawn hour, there wouldn't be any cars to deal with. "What do we do about the sentinels? I don't want the thieves trying to retrieve us if the sentinels are just going to cut them apart." He glanced over at Gambit. "How long would it take to get those two gunships off the ground?"

Remy's eyes narrowed. "Dey're on alert, but we need de gunships t' ride escort on our escape vehicles. Dey can't hold off sentinels f' long." He turned to look out the darkened windscreen. "We need serious firepower if we wan' a chance t' get away."

Scott recognized his expression. "You sound like you have an idea."

He smiled humorlessly. "Yeah. Give Colonel Fury a call. Tell him we're landing at Giants Stadium an' we need some air support."

Scott raised an eyebrow, impressed. "That might just work." He paused, struck by a new thought. "Giants Stadium?"

Remy nodded. "It's an older stadium. De whole area's riddled wit' steam tunnels and maintenance shafts we can disappear into if we have to." He gave Scott an indecipherable look. "We still have t' get away from SHIELD once de sentinels are dealt wit'."

Scott couldn't argue the point. SHIELD might very well want the opportunity to bring the X-Men under its wing, regardless of whether they wanted to go or not.

He grabbed the copilot's headset and settled it on his head. Reaching out with one hand, he dialed in the proper frequency. It was the best option they had.

#-#-#-#

Remy absolutely hated flying with his powers damped. It ripped him away from the mental diagrams that let him know where he was and where he was going, and left him adrift in a huge abyss. Until he got back on the ground and could find some reference point with which to orient himself, he was completely lost.

Remy shifted his weight where he leaned against the cockpit door frame. His leg ached fiercely, but he needed to be able to talk to Cyclops outside the Blackbird's communication net. The rest of the X-Men didn't need to know how dicey the situation was. They had enough to deal with in back.

Like Cyclops, he wore a headset that gave him access to the Blackbird's radio. He'd made one transmission on a pre-determined frequency he knew the Guild would be monitoring to pass on instructions. Undoubtedly SHIELD had picked up the transmission as well, but he didn't expect them to be able to crack the Guild's code. Not with so little reference material to work with.

Fury had been surprisingly willing to come to their aid. Whatever his orders were, he had been given some leeway to act openly against OZT. Either that, or SHIELD had gone quietly rogue. Neither option gave Remy much reason to trust Fury's motivations, though he was confident SHIELD was sincere in wanting the X-Men to remain alive and able to act against OZT.

Remy heard the click as Scott toggled his microphone. "Everyone, strap in. We're starting our final approach now."

An alarm began to wail. In the copilot's seat, Cyclops uttered a vicious curse.

"What?" Remy asked.

"We just lost cloaking." His heart rate jumped with what Remy interpreted to be real fear.

"Blackbird, this is Spotter One. We have you on radar." The voice of SHIELD's tactical communications officer crackled across the radio, sounding surprised. "Local sentinels are turning to take a look." The sentinels had spread out in a wide search pattern across New York's airspace.

Scott turned his head in Remy's direction. "You should go sit down. This is going to get pretty rough." His voice held the flat, precise tone Remy recognized from countless missions.

Another alarm went off, and in the pilot's seat, Storm reached forward to adjust something on the instrument panel. The audible warning went out. "Primary hydraulics failure, Cyclops."

Scott nodded, returning his attention to Storm and the aircraft. "Reducing airspeed," he told her. "Let's get the landing gear extended while we still can and then pour everything you can find into the shields."

"Flight Lead, Flight Lead, this is Spotter One. You are cleared to engage." The voice of the tactical officer came across the channel once again.

"Roger that, Spotter One," a second voice answered. "Engaging now. Weapons hot." Remy assumed it was the leader of the fighter squadron Fury said would be on station to deal with the sentinels.

"Sentinels closing in, Cyclops," Storm said.

"I see them."

Remy staggered as the first sentinel opened fire on them, rocking the Blackbird violently. He abandoned the cockpit and went to strap himself in the closest available seat. He still had his headset though, which kept him tuned in to the cross-channel chatter.

Something shrieked by the Blackbird, a hot shape that flashed past their windows at tremendous speed, trailing twin cones of jet exhaust. The fighter opened fire as it crossed in front of the Blackbird's nose. In the distance Remy spied the small warm shape of a sentinel which jinked wildly, evading the fire.

Remy felt the Blackbird lurch as Scott began to lower the flaps for landing. Their airspeed decreased. Below them, Remy could see a million pinprick lights—street lights, car engines, and the occasional brighter star of an office building or manufacturing site as they came in to land.

"Command, this is Spotter One. I have two bogeys approaching from the west—altitude three-zero-zero feet, speed one-two-zero knots. IFF's painting them as Russian Hind gunships and they're squawking civilian ident." A short pause. "Sending someone to take a look now."

Remy's gut tightened at the tactical officer's words. Now they would find out just how nicely SHIELD was willing to play. But it was hard to be confident when it was thieves' lives he'd put on the line.

"Command, those gunships are ours," Cyclops said, his voice tight. "And you had better let them through without challenge."

"You know I don't like surprises," Colonel Fury growled back, his voice immediately recognizable despite the radio distortion.

Another sentinel opened fire on the Blackbird. The crack and sizzle of their shields absorbing the energy echoed through the cabin like angry thunder. Through the open cockpit door, Remy saw Scott fighting the controls, trying to keep them level. Remy couldn't judge their altitude, but the sea of lights outside the windows had given way to darkness, which probably meant they were over the sports complex and very close to touching down.

Something exploded above them, enveloping the Blackbird in a wash of flames. Remy winced at the painfully bright flare. The laser barrage ceased.

"Scratch one," one of the fighter pilots called across the communication channel, to a chorus of cheers from the others.

"Command, I have visual on the gunships," another voice said. "They're in convoy with three ground vehicles and they most definitely have teeth. I repeat, the gunships are armed. What are my instructions?"

"The convoy is friendly, Command," Cyclops repeated harshly. "Let them through."

"Shields are down," Storm announced, her voice unnaturally calm. But the wild mix of her infrared signature gave away her fear.

Remy saw Scott flex his grip on the control wheel. "Nothing we can do about it now." He moved one hand to the thrust levers. "Here we go." He pulled back on the wheel, tipping the Blackbird's nose upward.

Fury's voice came across the line, sounding annoyed. "Sentry Two, this is Command. Do not take any action against the convoy. I repeat, do not take any action against the convoy."

Remy breathed a tiny sigh of relief as the Blackbird flared, settling down into the eerie cushion of the ground effect. A moment later the landing gear touched down with a terrific jolt and the entire airframe began to vibrate. Scott poured on the reverse thrust and Remy felt the nose of the airplane rotate downward.

The nose gear hit the pavement with crash and Remy immediately knew something was wrong. With a snap that Remy felt all the way up through the airframe, the nose gear collapsed, dropping the Blackbird on its nose. The airplane slewed sideways in a shriek of metal, rotating about a point somewhere behind him.

Remy grabbed his seat harness with both hands. _Please don' let us tumble_, he prayed desperately. All it would take was a wingtip digging into the pavement to send them cartwheeling.

A moment later, the main gear gave way and the Blackbird flopped onto its belly. The airplane's skin grated across the pavement with a sound like the wailing of a million lost souls. Miraculously, though, their terrifying sideways slide began to slow and eventually the airplane ground to a halt.

Remy gave himself to the count of three to come to grips with the fact that he wasn't dead. _Get up, LeBeau. Y' not out o' dis, yet._ Grimacing, he forced his body to function. With shaking fingers, he unlatched his seat harness and climbed to his feet. Around him, the other X-Men were doing the same. A thin haze of smoke filled the air, making his lungs itch.

Cyclops appeared at the cockpit doorway. "Let's move, everyone." He sounded obscenely calm. "Our rides are waiting."

Remy moved toward the back of the cabin. "Iceman an' I will take de reporters in one vehicle. Everyone else in de other two." He and Bobby needed to go to O-MOM, and it only made sense to take Trish with them. She needed medical attention and they certainly couldn't let her anywhere near the Guild complex.

Reaching the seats where Trish and her cameraman were sitting, Remy reached down to grab both the camera and Eddie's equipment bag. The cameraman didn't protest, which said a lot about how shell shocked he was.

Turning, Remy shoved both the camera and the bag at Bishop. "Guard dem wit' y' life," he told the other man. Everything they'd been through tonight had been for the sake of those tapes.

Bishop nodded as he took them. "I will."

Logan hit the manual releases on the Blackbird's ramp, which fell open, clanging on the pavement with a deafening crash. The X-Men quickly filed out and ran for the three large SUVs that waited for them a short distance away. The Guild's gunships stood off a ways, the noise from their rotor blades rolling across the empty parking lot in a continuous, pounding wave. Beyond them, Remy spied several other helicopters—no doubt SHIELD's escorts. He didn't see any sentinels, however, and for that he was immensely grateful.

Psylocke slung one of Mystique's arms around her shoulders, supporting the taller woman as she limped along. Hank carried Cannonball, lifting his limp form with ease. Rogue stayed at Hank's elbow, holding something aloft as they jogged toward one of the waiting vehicles.

With Bobby's help, Remy herded Trish and the cameraman toward the last vehicle in line. Behind him, fire glowed beneath one of the Blackbird's wings, sending up roiling gouts of heat and he felt an odd pang of remorse. She'd done her job and gotten them home in one piece, but this Blackbird would never fly again.

Remy climbed into the back seat of the SUV and helped pull Trish inside. Eddie slid in next to her as Bobby went around to the front passenger seat. Doors slammed up and down the row of vehicles and then the thieves peeled out, turning to retrace their route into the stadium complex. The gunships followed them.

Remy didn't relax until they'd passed through the outer rings of SHIELD's defensive cordon, crossed the bridge and disappeared into the city proper. Then he leaned his head against the cool window glass and closed his eyes.

_We did it._

AN: If I had a dollar for every time I've been called 'evil' this past week… LOL. Hopefully this was worth the wait and you've all forgiven me for the cruel cliffhanger last chapter. I'll try not to do something like that again. Really.

Thanks again to everyone who left me reviews. You really do make my day.


	45. Chapter 45

Chapter 45

Bobby sat quietly in a thinly padded chair in one corner of the curtained treatment area in O-MOM's dank basement. His skin still tingled painfully from the thorough scrubbing he'd given himself to wash off whatever radioactive particles he'd picked up. He and Remy had sent clothes over ahead of time, so he was now wearing jeans and, rather ironically, a Giants sweatshirt in place of his uniform.

In the center of the room, Remy reclined on a raised hospital bed as one of Dr. Reyes' colleagues stitched the gash in his arm. An IV and a pint of blood drained into the other arm. He, too, was freshly showered, his t-shirt dampened at the shoulders from his wet hair.

The doctor reminded Bobby of his grandfather. He had the same round face and thick, silver hair. He had pulled a large lighted magnifying glass over his work site and was taking tiny stitches with the precision of an old fashioned clockmaker. Remy had watched him work for a little while and then, apparently satisfied, turned his head away.

The doctor made a couple of loops with his thread and then pulled them through, tying off the last stitch. "There." He even sounded a bit like Bobby's grandfather. He picked up a pair of scissors from the tray beside him and trimmed the thread.

"You're a very lucky young man," he told Remy, pushing his glasses up on his nose with one blue-gloved finger.

Remy turned to regard him. "How's dat?" His voice still sounded dull with fatigue but his color had improved dramatically. By the time they'd gotten to O-MOM, Remy had been gray.

The doctor opened a sterile package of gauze and began winding it around Remy's arm. He glanced up. "Generally, if a mutant gets this close to a sentinel, they don't get away with just a laceration."

Remy made a non-committal sound.

The doctor finished his bandaging and sat back, stripping off his gloves as he did so. "Well, that's it. As soon as that's done, you'll be good to go." He indicated the pint of blood hanging on the IV stand.

Remy nodded. "T'ank you, docteur."

The doctor gathered his things and made his way out of the alcove. When he was gone, Bobby stood and walked over to the bed. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans, uncomfortable.

"How are you feeling?" he asked after a minute.

Remy shrugged. "I'm alive. I suppose dat counts f' somet'ing."

Bobby bit his lip then forced himself to say the words that sat in his stomach like a lump. "I really messed up." He found himself staring at the edge of the bed, unable to look Remy in the eye.

The silence stretched until Bobby couldn't stand it any longer. He risked a glance upward.

"Y' waitin' f' me t' disagree?" Remy asked, a hint of a smile leaking around his solemn expression. Bobby didn't know what to make of his reaction. Remy had little patience for stupidity.

He shook his head. He'd been through the events inside the sentinels' hangar in his head a hundred times since then. If he hadn't questioned Remy's decision to take out the power, could he have shut it down in time to keep Trish from getting hurt?

Remy's smile faded. "De middle of a firefight ain' de time t' be askin' questions," he said gently. "Y' helped plant dose charges. Y' could've asked then if y' had concerns."

Bobby's gut knotted. "I know. At the time, I didn't think about what it meant." He balled his hands into fists inside his pockets as the memories rolled over him. Remy had done a number of things on the way into the plant that Bobby didn't entirely understand, but that was how Remy worked. He always gave himself as many options as possible.

Bobby made a self-deprecating noise. "I was too overwhelmed trying to keep up with what I was supposed to be doing." The entire time, that nasty little voice of terror had chattered away in the back of his mind, telling him that he was going to make a mistake, drop something, blow the mission.

Remy shifted, wincing, and drew one knee up. "I asked a lot of y' tonight. No t'ief wit' just a year of experience has any business bein' in de middle o' somet'ing like dat." He tipped his head, his expression keen. "But y' did y' job, an' I couldn't have done mine wit'out y'."

Bobby's heart lifted a little at that. "Then you're not mad at me?"

Remy shook his head. "Non. Scott may disagree, but he can yell at y' if he t'inks there's some value in it."

"Gee, thanks."

The corners of Remy's mouth turned upward in a smile, but his expression quickly turned serious. "I know y' well enough t' know y' won't make de same mistake twice." He shrugged. "Besides, I'm de last person who should be throwin' stones. Just ask Warren."

Bobby heard the echoes of guilt in his voice, but there really wasn't anything he could say. Instead, he straightened and tried to gather his composure. He had his own guilt to try and shoulder. "I'm going to go check in with Dr. Reyes and see how Trish is doing."

Remy gave him another of his keen stares. "Dere wasn't anyt'ing y' could've done, Bobby. She went down too fast."

Bobby just shrugged. That was probably true, but it didn't help much.

Remy sat up abruptly and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Hang on, I'll go wit' y'."

Bobby watched as he removed the tubes from his arm and set them aside. "The doctor said to let that pint finish," he reminded him.

Remy shrugged. "Close enough." He carefully felt around on the doctor's instrument tray until he located a couple of cotton balls. Pressing them against the IV site, he slid off the edge of the bed and stood.

Bobby took his elbow to lead him out of the alcove. The entire area was cluttered with rolling curtain racks and various pieces of medical paraphernalia. It was hard enough for a seeing person to navigate the maze of equipment without tripping over something. Remy simply couldn't.

They made their way through the tangle in search of some member of the medical staff. They found Eddie instead, slouched in a hard plastic chair at the back of the area. A large window to his left looked in on an ordinary hospital room. Trish lay in the single bed, apparently sleeping. Her hand had been wrapped in a thick bundle of bandages and rested atop the blankets covering her. An IV stand and a heart monitor huddled close by the bed.

Eddie stood as they approached. "When do I get my equipment back?" he demanded without preamble. Bobby recognized his anger for the defense mechanism it was and tried not to take offense. He'd been perhaps the least prepared of them all.

"Twenty-four hours," Remy answered calmly. "Maybe a lil' more." He, too, seemed to have no trouble reading the cameraman.

Eddie hunched his shoulders and collapsed back into his chair. "Yeah, okay." The anger drained out of him as quickly as it had come.

Remy nodded in Trish's direction. "Have dey said how long dey gon' keep her?"

Eddie shook his head. "No. We'll tape the intro sections here if we have to." He ran a hand across the back of his neck. He looked like he was about ready to crawl out of his own skin. "Trish said she wanted it on air within forty-eight hours." He paused. "This is the biggest story of the century."

"No arguments there," Bobby agreed. "Listen, do you have someone coming to give you a ride home? You should probably try to get some sleep." He decided not to mention any specific names, lest he freak Eddie out any further. The Guild had been keeping close watch on Trish and her film crew for the last six weeks. Bobby knew them all on sight. The amazing thing was that they were all human—all just ordinary people who had given up their lives, sent their families away and gone into hiding in order to keep broadcasting the truth as best they could.

Eddie nodded in a sort of non-committal way. "Yeah, I've got somebody I can call."

Bobby nodded, figuring that was as much as he could probably do for the other man. "Take care, Eddie," he said.

He flashed a shadowed smile. "See you in twenty-four hours."

#-#-#-#

Remy walked into his office to find it full of people. The television was on, tuned to some kind of news program from the sound. Scott was ensconced in the corner of one of the couches with Jean curled up against him. Rogue sat on the opposite couch with Artur beside her. Logan had pulled one of the upholstered chairs from in front of Remy's desk over behind the leather sofas and was currently slouched in it, feet propped on one of the end tables while he chatted with Chess and Tom O'Shane.

"What's goin' on?" Remy asked curiously as he took in the scene. His gaze lingered on Rogue, who jumped to her feet as soon as she spied him.

"Remy!" She came around the couch and threw herself into his arms.

Remy hugged her tight, relishing the feel of her lithe form pressed against him. He breathed in the smell of her—dewy skin with its own unique musk, her hair still damp and flowery from a recent shower, and layered over those, the scent of the perfume he'd bought her for Christmas two years ago. _Home_, some deep, instinctive part of him labeled that smell.

"We're watching the Blackbird burn," Scott answered the question he'd all but forgotten, jerking his attention away from the woman in his arms.

Not that he planned to let go of her.

"Still?" he asked over Rogue's shoulder. It had been hours since their ersatz landing at the Meadowlands.

Scott tipped his head back to look at Remy. "Get this. The New Jersey fire department arrived on scene within about fifteen minutes, but SHIELD wouldn't let them anywhere near the 'Bird. Their spokesman's claiming the fire department lacks proper training and equipment for this kind of situation. They've sent for some special hazardous substances containment taskforce from the EPA which should be arriving any minute now." Remy could hear the smile in Scott's voice. "So all that Shi'ar technology has just been burning merrily away."

Remy returned the grin. OZT would get nothing of value from the Blackbird's wreckage. "If Fury keeps dis up, I'm gon' have t' change my opinion o' de man."

Scott snorted. "No kidding."

"Take a load off, Gumbo." Logan waved toward the couches with what Remy presumed was a bottle of beer. He took a drink and returned the bottle to its perch on his knee. "How's the arm?"

Remy saw the spikes of interest that colored his councilor's signatures. None of the thieves would have asked publicly, but they were keen to hear his response.

Wrapping an arm around Rogue's shoulders, he took Logan's suggestion and headed for the couch, managing to limp only a little. "Forty-two stitches an' a pint o' blood an' I'm right as rain," he answered lightly

Rogue stiffened in his grasp, her breath catching. Remy tensed in expectation, but to his surprise, she said nothing. Still, the colors of her heat signature leapt and shimmied in an angry dance.

Remy pulled her a little closer. "How's Sam?" he asked quietly. It was a blatant attempt to redirect the conversation onto a less dangerous topic, but he was too tired to be subtle.

"He's okay," Rogue answered tightly. Her arm tensed around his waist. "It'll be a while before he's up an' around, but Hank thinks he'll make a full recovery."

"Dat's good, eh?"

"Yeah."

Artur stood and moved aside as they approached the couch. He offered his hand to Remy. "Guildmaster, it's good to have you back."

Remy shook his hand with a sardonic smile. "Told y' I would be."

"Yes, well, we saw the first coverage of the crash before any of the X-Men made it back here." Anger edged the calmer colors of his signature.

Across from them, Jean laughed lightly. "I swear I tried to convince them you all were fine." She burrowed a little closer to her husband. "That crash was way too tame to have killed the X-Men."

Logan chuckled and raised his drink. "Hear hear."

Remy sank onto the couch with a heartfelt sigh, drawing Rogue down beside him. He propped his leg up on the coffee table and reached down to massage the aching knot of muscle and scar tissue on this thigh.

Rogue caught his other hand and laid something small and round in his palm. "Here, sugah."

He closed his hand around his wedding ring, surprised by how glad he was to have it back. A thief never wore any kind of jewelry on a job, particularly not something as conductive as gold. He'd left it on the bathroom counter, right next to Rogue's.

He slipped it on then reached over to take Rogue's hand. She willingly curled her fingers around his, but her hand was tense, her fingers hooked like claws. Remy decided not to make an issue of it. Putting her on the spot would only make things worse, he was certain.

For a few minutes there was no sound in the office other than the continuing news coverage.

"I'm curious, Remy," Scott's voice interrupted a trio of talking heads who were busy debating whether the X-Men should be considered heroes or criminals. "When you suggested Giants Stadium, had you considered the media aspects?" He waved a hand toward the television.

Remy frowned. "De thought crossed my mind," he allowed. "Why? I thought y' wanted national coverage."

"I do. It's just about perfect, in fact. We're the lead story on every news station in the country." Scott cocked his head. "I was just curious if that was part of why you picked it."

Remy didn't get the chance to formulate a response as the news coverage shifted to the SHIELD spokesman. From the news anchor's narration, Remy gathered that the press conference was being held at the crash site, beyond the ring of fire, police and SHIELD vehicles that surrounded the remains of the Blackbird.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I have some new information, and then I'll take questions," the spokesman said.

Relative silence answered him, broken by the sound of the wind picked up by the microphones and the click and whirr of the camera shutters.

The spokesman cleared his throat. "First, I can now confirm that the crashed aircraft is one of the modified Blackbird aircraft flown by the X-Men."

His statement was met with a surge of questions from the surrounding reporters, most of which were some version of "Were the X-Men on the airplane?" or "Are the X-Men still alive?"

The spokesman waited for the furor to die down before he spoke. "From transmissions intercepted by SHIELD just prior to the crash, I can tentatively confirm that some or all of the X-Men were onboard the aircraft at the time of the accident. We also believe everyone onboard was able to escape before the airplane caught fire."

The reporters exploded with a new set of questions, but Remy doubted the spokesman would have much more to offer. Nor was he wrong. The press conference quickly devolved into the endless repetition that was so characteristic of such things, and the newscast eventually broke away to return to its talking heads.

"What's de status on de tapes?" Remy asked after a bit.

"All the footage is uploaded," Chess answered, "and they've started the processing."

Scott craned his neck to look behind him at the thief. "Will we have any trouble getting the footage to Trish's people on time?"

Remy wondered if Scott even realized how easily he referred to the thieves as "we" these days.

Chess shook his head. "We shouldn't."

"Good." Scott raised his arms over his head, stretching. "Well, in that case, I think I hear my bed calling me." He surged to his feet and turned to offer Jean a hand. "It's been a long day."

Logan raised his beer in acknowledgment.

"You can say that again," Rogue said quietly. Her voice held a faint, bitter note.

He glanced down at her. "You ready f' bed too, cherie?"

She shrugged. "Ah don't know if ah can sleep."

Remy pulled his leg off the table and gathered himself to stand. _Saints, but I'm tired,_ he thought as his body protested.

He pushed himself to his feet. If nothing else, the pretense of going to bed would give him a chance to get Rogue alone for a while. He didn't like what he was reading from her at all.

After a round of good nights despite the fact that it was now mid-morning, Remy led his wife toward their bedroom.

#-#-#-#

Rogue pulled away from Remy almost as soon as the door had closed behind them. She was angry and she didn't know why. It wasn't like she wasn't glad to see him. When he'd walked into the office it was like the giant rubber band around her heart had snapped and she could finally breathe again. She'd kept telling herself that if she acted like everything was all right, the anger would eventually have to go away.

Shaking, she managed to get as far as the foot of the bed before her legs gave out beneath her. She sank onto the corner, knotting her fingers in the bedspread, and fought not to cry. Her breath hissed through her teeth. She absolutely _hated_ feeling this weak. It lit a hot rage deep in her gut that threatened to burn her up from the inside out.

"Now I'm really startin' t' worry about y'," Remy said from his place near the door.

"Well, quit," she snapped. "Ah'm just fine."

"An' I'm de Queen of England," he returned dryly.

He didn't try to approach her, which, she conceded, was probably wise. There'd been a couple of times in their relationship when he'd expressed concern and she'd come out swinging. Not that she was likely to hurt him without her powers, but she felt violent enough to try.

"Remy, ah mean it. Leave me alone." Maybe if she warned him off, he would give her the space she needed to get herself back under control.

"Non, chere." She heard the faint rustle as he shifted his weight. "Y' don' have t' talk t' me, but I'm not gon' pretend everyt'ing's okay, either." He took a small, limping step in her direction, wincing as he transferred his weight to his bad leg.

It was the limp that shattered what little self-control she still had—his mortality thrown in her face, an inescapable reminder of everything she stood to lose. She was off the bed before she'd registered moving.

She balled her hands into fists as she stalked up to him. "No, everything is not okay. Ya could have _died_ today!"

"So could you, chere." He reached up to stroke her hair, but she batted his hand away. The red eyes narrowed.

"Don't." Chest heaving, Rogue stepped back, her hands held out in a warding gesture. "Just… don't touch me." Something like panic gripped her heart and squeezed tight. Remy was far too good at getting past her defenses—opening her up—and right now the knowledge of how much it was going to hurt to lose him was a raw wound inside her. She needed her walls to keep everything in. Otherwise, she would simply shatter.

He laughed disgustedly. "I thought we were past dat."

Rogue shook her head, hunching her shoulders. She hadn't been trying to hurt him, but she had. She could hear it in his voice.

"Do ya know what Trish asked me earlier tonight?" she asked, her tone dipped in bitterness.

Warily Remy shook his head.

She wrapped her arms around herself, seeking comfort. "She asked if we were puttin' the honeymoon off until after OZT is gone."

Remy's expression cleared with sudden understanding. "Rogue—" Compassion softened his gaze and he reached for her once again.

"_No!_" She stumbled back, trying to escape. "What is the _point_—?"

She didn't move fast enough. Remy caught her right arm in a light grip, his fingers warm on her skin. The touch jolted her all the way down to her toes, robbing her of her defenses, and she reacted the only way she knew how.

She swung at him, an awkward, left-handed strike that nevertheless had the full force of her body behind it. Remy didn't try to block her. Instead, he caught her wrist, redirecting her blow over his shoulder so that she missed him cleanly. Her momentum carried her right into him, and before she could properly register what had happened, he had her trapped up against him. His mouth crashed down on hers, possessive, demanding, and her body responded with a surge of desire. She groaned as the pain in her heart transmuted into aching need.

"_This_ is de point," he growled as he tipped her head back to gain access to her throat. Hot kisses trailed across her skin. Her heart pounded madly in her chest.

Suddenly desperate for the feel of him, she grabbed the bottom of his t-shirt and yanked it upward. He hissed as the shirt caught on his bandage, but before she could even think to apologize he'd tugged it free. He stripped the shirt the rest of the way off and dropped it carelessly on the ground before pulling her roughly to him once again.

Rogue kissed him back with hungry abandon. The feel of his skin beneath her palms nearly drove her crazy. She slid her hands across the hard planes of his chest and felt the answering tug deep inside her. She dug her fingertips into his shoulders, striving to pull him even closer. Her shirt followed his after a moment, and then the rest of their clothes, paving the short distance to the bed in discarded barriers.

There was nothing gentle in their meeting amid the bed covers. The rage and terror that had been building inside her since before the Blackbird had even left the ground fueled an explosion of desperate, uncontrollable passion. She clung to Remy with all her strength as the waves of pleasure crashed over her, using her arms, her legs, even her teeth to keep from being swept away.

Eventually the torrent ebbed, leaving her limp and shaking with exhaustion, but with her heart swept clean. Remy nuzzled her gently, leaving a trail of kisses from her jaw to her lips.

"Better now, cherie?" he asked.

She blinked a couple of times as the meaning of the words sank in, and then ragged laughter bubbled out of her. "Ya did that on purpose."

He chuckled. "Beats fightin'." His laughter took on a wicked edge. "Though I t'ink I'd have fewer bruises if I'd let y' hit me."

"Remy!" Rogue found herself blushing, which struck her as rather odd considering the circumstances.

Grinning, Remy settled on his back and Rogue was content to drape herself across him, pillowing her head on his shoulder.

He stroked the skin of her back in lazy circles. "Besides, it seemed like y' needed it."

"Ah guess ah did," she admitted after a moment. She heaved a sigh. "Ah'm sorry ah've been so prickly. Ah suppose ah'd rather fight than admit ah'm afraid."

His arms tightened fractionally around her. "Dat's always been y' way, chere."

She raised her head to look at him, uncertain how to read his tone. But his eyes were closed and his face still, giving her little insight. She pursed her lips. "In mah defense, though, ah did try ta talk to ya," she pointed out.

"I know y' did." He paused. "An' I shut y' down."

At the time, the rejection had stung badly, and Rogue could still feel an echo of it in her heart. "Yeah," she agreed, keeping her tone mild with an effort. "Why is that?"

His hand stilled on her back. "I can't do personal while I'm workin', chere." He raised his head to look down at her. "I get distracted, it messes wit' my judgment." He shrugged and laid his head back down. "I do stupid t'ings."

Rogue wasn't entirely certain she believed his explanation. "Ya never had any qualms about mixin' business an' personal when we were on missions with the X-Men," she finally said.

He snorted. "An' how many dumb t'ings y' remember me doin' on those missions, chere?" he asked, sounding amused.

She raised an eyebrow. "That wasn't just part of the act?"

"Not de really stupid stuff, no." He shrugged apologetically. "It fit de persona t' play t'ings fast an' loose wit' de X-Men, so I did, but dat's never been de way I'd choose t' work. I'm sorry I didn' t'ink t' warn y'. It jus'… didn't occur to me."

Rogue resettled her head on his shoulder and blew her breath out in a long sigh, letting the lingering echo of hurt drain away with it. It seemed strange that she could love this man, marry him, and still know so little about him.

_But we're talkin' now_, she reminded herself. Remy wasn't keeping secrets any more, so getting to know him was simply a matter of time.

Silence fell comfortably between them and after a while Remy went back to tracing abstract designs on her back. Rogue closed her eyes, enjoying the delicious sensation, and let her thoughts drift.

Eventually his hand came to rest on the small of her back, fingers splayed and his thumb resting lightly on the base of her spine. She thought he'd fallen asleep until he spoke.

"I t'ink I'd like t' find a private island… buy one if I have to." His words were soft, thick. "Be nice, jus' you an' me, alone wit' de sun an' de sand." He sighed softly, his voice fading. "Dat sounds like a perfect honeymoon t' me."

Rogue's breath caught as a cold lance stabbed through her, shattering her peace. She bit her lip, her body tensing. "It sounds nice, sugah," she managed.

Remy stirred, muscles tightening as he pulled her close. "We'll find a way, cherie. Don' you worry."

She blinked hard against the sudden burn in her eyes. "How can ya be so sure?"

He chuckled, his breath warm on her scalp. "We made it dis far, didn' we? Figurin' out y' powers is nothing compared t' dat."

Strangely, Rogue found herself relaxing into him once again, buoyed by his confidence.

"Maybe, sugah," she finally conceded. "Maybe."


	46. Chapter 46

Chapter 46

Remy found himself once again in the Morlock Tunnels. The moist underground air smelled of stone and decay. Dim light flickered behind him and threw the Marauders' shadows up on the wall in elongated caricatures. Their shuffling steps followed him, always just a couple of steps behind.

Remy shivered as he made the final turn and stood at the entrance to the broad cavern the Morlocks called home. But instead of the clusters of ramshackle huts built from scavenged pieces and Morlocks going about their daily business in twos and threes, he found the underground dwellers standing in neat, geometric rows. Men, women, and children, all standing stock still facing the cavern opening.

Sabertooth chuckled in his ear. "Easy meat," he growled, but his voice was all wrong.

Remy turned. Wolverine winked at him and raised his claws in salute before sauntering toward the nearest Morlocks.

_No! Wait!_ Remy tried to protest, but no sound came out of his mouth. Somewhere, a deep-throated bell began tolling.

An invisible force seemed to propel him forward until he stood in the midst of the motionless tunnel dwellers. He found a knife in his hand. One row away, Scott Summers slit the throat of a teenage girl with long, stringy hair and huge, reptilian eyes. She collapsed and Scott turned to Remy. A red diamond sat in the middle of his forehead.

"Don't worry," he told Remy. "They're not really people. They don't count."

#-#-#-#

Remy woke with a strangled cry, instinctively trying to knock the knife out of Cyclops' hand but his arms wouldn't obey him. A heavy weight pinned him down, crushing the breath out of him, and strong fingers dug into the nerves of his wrists.

"Remy, hon, wake up. Ya dreamin'." Rogue's face was mere inches from his, the infrared colors of her face glowing brightly in the surrounding darkness. She sounded out of breath.

Awareness of where and when he was slammed through him. Relief followed, and then terror. He gulped down a shallow lungful of air—with Rogue perched on his chest a full breath was impossible.

"I'm awake," he managed as panic clawed at him. "Are y' all right, chere? Did I hurt y'?" He'd come within a hair of killing her the last time she'd woken him out of a nightmare and the memory alone was enough to make him go cold.

The pressure on his wrists eased. His fingers immediately began to tingle from the restored blood flow.

"Ah'm fine, sugah. Someone's at the door."

As if in response to her words, someone pounded on the door to their bedroom, eliciting a dull booming noise. Rogue climbed off of him, and with a groan Remy sat up. Pieces of his dream swirled around inside his mind, churning up his memories and filling his mouth with the taste of bile. He scrubbed his face, trying to wake up enough to push the images away, bury them once again.

Once he'd regained some kind of composure he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and staggered to his feet.

"What time is it?" he asked Rogue as he went in search of his jeans. He'd been asleep long enough for his muscles to stiffen up, so he found himself lurching across the bedroom in an ungainly parody of his usual gait. But at least his leg had quit aching.

"A little after eight," Rogue answered as she climbed out of bed on the far side and belted on her robe.

"A.m. or p.m.?" He scooped up a pair of jeans from the floor at the foot of the bed. His fingers told him immediately that they were his own—Rogue preferred her denim dark and rugged; he like his old and worn and washed until it felt like velvet against his skin.

"P.m." Rogue ran a hand through her hair. "It's still Monday, ah think."

Remy was pleasantly surprised to realize he'd been asleep for close to ten hours. He slipped his jeans on and padded to the door just as whoever was out there knocked again.

"I'm comin', I'm comin'," he muttered as he crossed the last few steps and yanked the door open. Artur stood on the far side, his heat signature flaring with barely suppressed fury.

"Guildmaster, the Bogota Cartel has Adrian," the other man said without preamble.

Remy's thoughts screeched to a halt. "What?" In the madness of their escape from the sentinels facility, he'd literally forgotten about Adrian.

Gut clenching, he marshaled his wits. He was going to have to play these next few minutes convincingly or he risked losing everything. The Guild could not know that he'd betrayed Adrian to the Colombians.

"Dat doesn' make any sense," he told Artur after a moment. "Are you sure it's de Cartel?"

Artur nodded. "NYPD Narcotics Division is looking for information on the kidnapping of a man off the streets of Manhattan sometime Saturday afternoon. They've identified one of the kidnappers as a lieutenant in the Bogota Cartel's hierarchy." Artur paused, his signature flickering dangerously. "A bystander took a couple of pictures with their cell phone. It was definitely Adrian they snatched."

"Then they've had him more than forty-eight hours." Remy shook his head, feeling the weight of his choices. Adrian was likely already dead, but he couldn't say that. He was honor-bound to act as though he believed Adrian was still alive until he had definitive proof otherwise. The Guild never abandoned its own.

Remy swallowed his disgust at the hypocrisy he'd been forced into. He had no choice but to see this thing through to its end.

He raked a hand through his hair. "Who's lookin' for him? Do we know where they've got him yet?"

Artur shook his head. "We've got every available thief working on it, but no solid leads yet." He made an apologetic motion with his hands. "We do know the _jefe_ is staying at an estate north of the city, but he's not there now."

Remy leaned a shoulder against the door frame. "Where's Carson? Dis could be a ploy t' flush him out." He considered it fortuitous that Adrian had been Carson's contact for the Miami job. There were lots of dots scattered about, and with just a little help the Guild would connect them in the order Remy needed them to.

Artur nodded. "We'd thought of that also. He's here, keeping his head down, but he's not happy about it."

"All right." Remy figured he'd covered his bases as best he could. He pushed away from the door frame. "Give me a couple o' minutes t' get dressed."

Artur nodded again. "Yes, Guildmaster." He stepped back and Remy let the bedroom door close.

Steeling himself, Remy turned. Rogue stood quietly behind him, her hands gripping her belt ties. Her heat signature rippled with suspicion and dismay, but she didn't say anything.

After a minute, Remy headed toward the closet. Rogue stepped adroitly in front of him. He stopped short, rocking back on his heels. The moment stretched until Rogue raised one hand, laying it lightly on his chest.

"Ah just need ta know," she said quietly.

Remy caught her hand and brought it to his lips. "Y' already do, chere." He could tell from her signature that she understood what he'd done. She just wanted confirmation.

He waited for her to flinch, to pull back—waited for the smear of colors that would betray her disgust. But though her signature spiked with alarm, she didn't pull away. Instead, her fingers closed painfully tight around his own.

"They'll kill ya if they ever find out." Her voice was low, fierce.

He pulled her closer. "Only if dey can prove it."

Rogue breathed a long sigh and nodded. Then she stepped back, leaving his path clear.

#-#-#-#

"We've found him, Guildmaster!" All conversation in Remy's office died as Artur rushed in.

Seated on one corner of Remy's mammoth desk, Rogue looked up from the map of the city she'd been perusing. She glanced first at Remy where he sat behind the desk, his expression carefully guarded, and then toward Carson.

The blond thief, who had been pacing restlessly for the past couple of hours, spun on his heel at Artur's announcement.

"Where?" he demanded. He crossed to the desk, arriving at the same time as Artur.

Artur motioned to Rogue to lay out her map where they could see it. The remainder of the Guild council as well as Logan, Marcus and a couple of other senior thieves gathered around the desk as she complied. Remy rose to his feet, one hand smoothing his tie. The black Armani suit he'd donned only accentuated his angular features and lean build, reminding Rogue of a panther.

She resisted the impulse to shake her head. She didn't know what to think of her husband at the moment. He hadn't really had a choice—she understood that. Adrian had to be stopped by whatever means. All of their lives had depended on it. But she would have been a lot more comfortable if Remy had simply killed him. This scheming didn't sit well with her.

Artur rotated the map so he could view it right side up. "They're holding him here." He tapped an industrial area along the banks of the Hudson. "Our people have the warehouse under surveillance. The security looks light." He paused. "Too light."

"A trap?" Remy asked.

"Possibly," Artur answered. "Or they just don't consider us a threat."

Remy frowned, anger highlighting his features. "These people have been tryin' t' push Miami around like dey don' t'ink de Guild has de will or de resources t' challenge them. They're arrogant."

"We would be foolish to assume that's all it is," Chess countered.

Remy nodded. "O' course. We'll go in expectin' de worst."

"We?" Chess asked sharply, and Rogue sucked in her breath at the implied warning in his tone. Across the desk, she saw Wolverine stiffen ever so slightly.

Remy met the other man's gaze, his expression set. "Yes, I mean me, too," he said calmly. "Adrian is a New York t'ief an' dat makes him my responsibility."

Carson made a disgusted sound. "Don't pretend you care, Guildmaster." He gave Remy a narrow-eyed stare. "You benefit more than anyone else from this."

Rogue blanched at the sudden chill that descended on the office.

Remy gave Carson a flat stare. "Dis ain' my doing," he said, entirely believably, and Rogue was taken aback to realize what a good liar her husband was. He shrugged, continuing, "I won' pretend it ain't t' my benefit. Adrian's been a thorn in m' side dat I'd just as soon be rid of. But not like dis." This time, Rogue was pretty certain the regret in his voice was genuine.

Carson opened his mouth for a retort, but Chess beat him to the punch.

"Be careful what you say." Chess held the other man's gaze in wordless warning. "Accusations carry no weight here unless you have proof to back them." Around him, the other councilors wore similar expressions.

Rogue wondered how differently this conversation might have gone had the X-Men not just pulled off their attack on the sentinel assembly facility. The success of their mission had undoubtedly translated into a boost to Remy's credibility.

Carson pressed his lips together in a thin, bloodless line, but he nodded in acquiescence.

"Very well, then." Chess turned back to Remy, the topic abruptly dropped. "I'd like to renew my protest to you joining in on a rescue, Guildmaster. It's too dangerous."

Remy's expression quirked wryly. "We keep havin' dis conversation."

"You keep refusing to listen to sense."

Remy raised his eyebrows. "An' amazingly, I'm still here."

Rogue had to grin at the familiar dry humor. Remy could be incredibly stubborn, but he almost always passed it off with a smile and a joke.

Chess didn't share his amusement. He frowned, his disapproval obvious. "This could still be a trap."

Remy nodded. "Oui, which is one reason I want t' be dere. If it _is_ a trap, we're gon' need de equivalent of a strike team t' take dem, an' I've got more combat experience dan anyone else in de Guild."

Rogue understood his reasoning. Given the bad blood between them, Remy could not afford to fail in any attempt to retrieve Adrian, or give the impression that he was doing less than his absolute best on the other thief's behalf. But he would be taking a risk going into a place he didn't have drawings for and couldn't see.

"You can count me in," Logan drawled from the far side of the desk.

He received a round of surprised looks from the thieves, but no one disagreed. Of course, Rogue reflected, Logan's reputation was probably enough to win him a place in Guild operations without the need for treaties or agreements.

Remy inclined his head in the Canuck's direction. "Y' help is always appreciated, Logan."

Rogue bit her lip. "Ah'd like ta go, too," she told her husband.

This time, the reactions were far less accepting.

"This is no place for the Guildmistress," Tom O'Shane said severely. "These are drug dealers—thugs. They're dangerous."

Rogue stiffened, a familiar anger coiling in her gut. "An' the two gunships full o' OZT soldiers that ah fought off just yesterday were a pack o' pansies?" She glared at the thief.

Tom recoiled in surprise, and in the sudden silence she heard a distinct snicker from Wolverine.

She rounded on him. "Ya got somethin' ta say?" she demanded.

He grinned at her. "Not me, darlin'. I just enjoy watchin' ya get all riled up."

"Hmph." Rogue crossed her arms, somewhat mollified, and blew an annoying lock of white hair out of her face.

Logan turned to Remy. "The three of us'll make a decent strike team," he said, "and Bishop'd probably be willin' ta join in if we want a fourth."

Remy considered for a moment then shook his head, a humorless smile touching his lips. "Non. Bishop'd be too conflicted. He's still a cop at heart, neh? He'd want t' arrest dem."

The hardness in his eyes gave Rogue pause, and her stomach curled into a knot as she considered the implications of his words.

"So is the objective here to get Adrian or to teach these cartel boys a lesson?" she finally asked.

"Both, chere." Remy watched her, his thoughts inscrutable. "De first priority is always t' protect our own, but part o' dat is remindin' folks like these drug dealers _why_ no one messes wit' Guild."

Artur leaned forward, bracing his fingertips against the desk top. "They will pay dearly for daring to lay hand on a thief." A shiver worked its way up Rogue's spine at his cold tone.

Remy looked over at her, his expression piercing. "Are y' sure y' want a part in dis?" he asked.

Rogue took a deep breath to steady herself. She wasn't certain she wanted a part in any of it—especially not for Adrian's sake—but she'd made her choice when she married Remy. She didn't intend to ever let herself be anything less than brutally honest about what that meant.

"Ah'm sure," she answered, meeting his red gaze. She summoned a thin smile. "Partners in crime, remember?"

"D'accord, cherie." He made an accepting gesture, but she would have sworn she saw regret in his eyes. Then he turned his attention to the assembled thieves. "We'll go in two groups…"

#-#-#-#

Rogue didn't have any trouble handling the approach to the warehouse. She'd been back in the world of military-style covert ops long enough that it had become habit. She and Logan took the point with the thieves drifting like ghosts behind them. She rarely saw them except as vague figures cloaked in the shadows. Remy stayed on her heels for the most part, but for a man who couldn't see he had an uncanny way of pointing out the cartel's lookouts before she noticed them herself.

Rogue carried a snub-nosed automatic rifle slung over her shoulder, but her primary weapon was a silenced pistol. The distances involved didn't warrant bringing her sniper's rifle. They'd taken down three lookouts so far without a hitch, including the man who'd been pacing back and forth along the edge of the warehouse roof.

She had been doing fine. This was, at its core, a rescue mission and her targets were quite possibly more deserving of their fate than OZT's forces. She would not suffer much more than a twinge of regret for their deaths.

But then she heard Adrian scream.

Suddenly, Rogue wasn't crouched beside a steel shipping container with Remy a half step behind her and a loaded gun in her hands. She was back in that stone room beneath the Guild complex with the fire of Adrian's drug in her veins and the unending _pain_—

"_Rogue_." Remy's hiss snapped her out of her memories. She found herself slumped against the side of the shipping container, gasping for breath. Remy watched her with a worried crease between his brows.

Straightening, she tried to shake off the memories and the tight band that seemed to constrict around her chest. "Adrian," she whispered.

He nodded, his expression grim.

Across the way, Logan waved them forward. Rogue forced herself to concentrate. They'd taken care of all of the lookouts, clearing their way into the warehouse. Remy turned to signal the thieves who appeared out of the darkness. Silently the thieves moved forward, disappearing around the sides of the building. They would work their way inside from there while she, Logan and Remy took the front.

Their entrance was a plain metal door. She and Logan kept an eye out for trouble while Remy made a quick examination of the door. None of them expected him to find an active security system, and after a minute he shook his head to show that it was clear. With a deft touch, he silently unlatched the door and pushed it open just a sliver to allow them to see inside.

A man stood a few feet in front of the door, an automatic rifle cradled in his hands. He had his back to them, facing toward the interior of the warehouse. He scuffed his feet and stared at the ground, looking bored. Beyond him, stacks of pallets rose toward the high ceiling, creating a maze of passages.

Logan extended his claws. Remy gave him a silent three-count and then pushed the door open far enough for the other man to dart through. Before the guard could even register their presence, Logan speared him through the back and out the chest, covering the man's mouth with his other hand to keep him quiet.

With little more than a soft scuffle, Logan laid the dead man down on the floor beside the door.

Men's voices floated to them from somewhere toward the center of the building, their words indistinct but the tone undeniably taunting. Laughter followed, and then a meaty thud and a cry of pain. Rogue knew the sounds of a beating, and knew it wasn't their fists they were using on Adrian, but something more solid—like a crowbar or a tire iron.

Rogue did her best to ignore the sounds as she and Logan led the way through the stacks of shipping pallets. But the memories lurked at the edges of her awareness, and like a distant echo she could hear her own screams reverberating through the darkness.

After twenty seconds or so, those sounds ceased. Rogue had no idea what they did next, but Adrian screamed again, the sound raw and full of hopeless rage. She fought down a violent shudder. She could never hate Adrian enough to want him to suffer like that.

They rounded the final corner, careful to stay inside the narrow band of shadow cast by the stacked pallets. Ten feet ahead, their aisle ended, giving on to an open area.

Adrian hung by his wrists from a rope someone had thrown over one of the lighting trusses on the ceiling and then tied off. If Rogue hadn't already known who he was, she would never have recognized him through the swelling and bruises that disfigured him. Blood covered his clothes and blackened the cement beneath his dangling toes. Flies droned around the blood pool.

Three men surrounded Adrian, two with long metal bars in their hands and the third with a bloodied knife. They jeered him in a mix of Spanish and English, the two with the crowbars taking swings at him as if he were a piñata rather than a man. One of them connected with his hip in a crunch of bone, eliciting a guttural scream. A fourth man—obviously their leader—watched from a short distance, his expression placid.

Rogue tasted bile and swallowed hard against the accompanying nausea. Beside her, Logan growled deep in his throat, the low sound making the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. On the far side of the clearing, she caught the flicker of motion that meant the thieves had moved into position.

"Now," Remy said, loudly enough for everyone in the warehouse to hear him.

The men surrounding Adrian spun toward the sound. The fastest of the three threw his metal bar down with a loud clatter and went for the gun at his waistband, but Logan dropped him with a round to the chest before he could get halfway there. He collapsed and lay still.

"Don't move," Rogue warned the other two as she walked forward, shifting her aim between them. Her hands remained steady despite the adrenaline pounding through her system. "Get down on the ground, hands behind your heads."

Their gazes moving from her to Wolverine and back, the men slowly complied. Logan knelt and searched both men, sending their guns skittering away across the floor.

The fourth man turned to run, only to find himself facing a trio of thieves with weapons drawn and aimed directly at him. He froze, anger snapping in his gaze.

"I want him alive," Remy said, pointing toward the fourth man.

Artur lowered his gun. "Yes, Guildmaster." He grabbed the cartel leader's arms, twisting them harshly behind his back and securing them with a plastic zip tie. He frisked the man, tossing aside a pair of guns and a knife, and then kicked the man's feet out from under him. He dropped to his knees with a grunt of pain.

Carson immediately holstered his weapon and drew a knife to cut the rope holding Adrian. Together, he and Marcus lowered the injured thief to the ground.

"What about these two?" Rogue asked, waving the muzzle of her gun toward the two men lying on the ground in front of her.

Remy didn't look at her. "Kill them."

Rogue sucked in her breath in pure shock, her eyes widening. She glanced over at Logan in the hope that he might tell her she'd just imagined the words, but he only shrugged as if to say, _What did you expect?_

She closed her eyes and looked away, but the image of a man's broad back framed in her rifle sights came to life behind her eyelids the moment she did. Was this really any different?

_These men are disarmed—defenseless_, a voice inside her argued. But the guards she'd shot from a distance had been effectively defenseless, too. That was the point of sniping.

_That was part of the mission_, the voice returned. _Bringing down OZT is about protecting people._

Rogue opened her eyes. Sending a definitive message to the Colombian drug cartels was ultimately about protecting people, too. As a girl she'd heard enough stories from her mother and her associates to know just how inhumanly vicious the cartels could be. She glanced over at Adrian's ruined form. But if she needed proof it was right there.

Taking a deep breath to ward off the queasiness in her stomach, Rogue crossed the short space separating her from the two men lying face down on the cement. Without pausing, she shot each man once in the back of the head.

Trembling ever so slightly, she lowered her weapon and stepped away. Logan watched her, his blue eyes piercing, but she found no condemnation in his gaze. He nodded once in acknowledgment then went to help Carson and Marcus.

Remy had gone over to where the cartel leader knelt. The man was older than Rogue expected—she'd guess his age at close to sixty—and he stared up at Remy with an imperious kind of outrage in his dark eyes.

"You will not get away with this," he told Remy in heavily accented English. "If you kill me you will swim in blood. That I can promise you."

Remy didn't look particularly impressed by the threat. He pulled a deck of cards from somewhere and began idly shuffling them, his skilled fingers turning the motion of the cards into an elaborate dance.

"We haven't been introduced," Remy said after a long moment filled with the whisper of the cards and Adrian's low moaning. His tone was benign, even friendly, and a tiny shiver worked its way down Rogue's spine. "My name is Remy LeBeau. I'm Guildmaster of New York, an' you, _señor_, are Miguel Ramon Villaverde Muñoz, head of de Bogota Cartel."

Villaverde's expression flickered at the sound of his name, and Rogue wondered how many people were privy to this man's identity. Not many, she suspected, which made her curious how Remy had come to possess it.

Remy shuffled his cards a final time and put them away. "There. Now that that's out o' de way, we can talk."

"I have nothing to say to you, boy."

Artur grabbed Villaverde's collar at that but Remy forestalled him with a raised hand. Artur released him with a grimace.

Remy sank into a crouch in front of the cartel leader, putting them at eye level. The act demonstrated a kind of confidence that Rogue was certain was not lost on the other man.

"Then y' can listen," he said quietly.

Villaverde did not respond, which Remy seemed to take as an assent. He gave the man an evaluating stare. "Take dis back to y' people: _It will not end_ until I can sit down an' have a civil conversation wit' your successor."

The first hint of uncertainty lit Villaverde's features. "What won't end?" he asked after a moment.

Remy rose from his crouch with the smooth grace of a predator. "You'll find out soon enough. Jus' remember what I said." He shifted his gaze from the drug dealer to Artur. "Let him go."

Frowning, Artur complied. He reached down to cut the ties binding Villaverde and then stepped back, allowing the older man to climb slowly to his feet. Villaverde rubbed his wrists, his dark eyes roaming the area as if he were only just realizing that his men were all dead, leaving him alone.

With a last look at Remy, he took a cautious step toward the exit. When no one moved to stop him, he turned and walked away as fast as his age allowed.

"We're just going to let him go?" Carson demanded as Villaverde's form disappeared into the shadows. His tone bristled with barely contained rage.

Remy turned to the thief, his red irises lurid in the dim lighting. Without his powers his eyes didn't actually glow any more, Rogue had noticed, but there was still something unnaturally luminescent about them.

"If we killed him, we would simply be balancing de scales," he told Carson calmly. "Life f' life, violence f' violence. Someone else would take his place an' not'ing would change." He cocked his head, his expression hardening. "Instead, I t'ink it's high time we taught dese arrogant mongrels t' watch their step around de Guild."

"How does turning loose the man responsible for _this_—" He gestured to where Marcus and Logan were arranging Adrian on a makeshift stretcher. "—teach them anything?"

Remy shrugged. "Life is cheap, neh? I got no interest in shedding any more blood. We've demonstrated dat we can." He glanced briefly at Rogue and then down at the three dead men. "Dat's enough."

He shook his head slowly. "No, we're thieves. We'll hit them where it really hurts."

Carson crossed his arms. "Which is?"

A grim smile lit Remy's face. "De money, of course."

#-#-#-#

Remy leaned casually against the wall in one corner of the med center's waiting room, trying to remain unobtrusive. Rogue waited beside him, idly curling a lock of hair around her finger. She'd said little since they'd found Adrian.

Remy subconsciously shook his head. No, she'd said little since she'd shot two men execution-style on his orders, he corrected. At the moment he didn't even know what to think about that, let alone what he should do about it. If anything.

A woman entered the room in a rush, distracting him from his thoughts. She was tall and slender, and carried herself with an air of statuesque dignity even in her hurry. Remy didn't recognize her heat signature but, as always, he memorized it.

She went over to the small group of people waiting for news. Adrian had gone into surgery several hours earlier. Carson was there along with his wife and an older couple Remy was pretty sure were Adrian's parents. Artur stood a short ways away with a couple of other thieves, close but not really a part of the group.

A few other people sat scattered about the waiting room. Most of them were parents with children, there for early morning doctor's appointments.

The older couple rose to exchange hugs with the woman, their conversation muted.

As they talked, Bobby walked in. He spotted Artur first, changing course to approach him. Remy pushed away from the wall. Bobby was responsible for delivering the edited tapes to Trish's people.

Rogue slipped her hand into his as they went to join Artur. Her heat signature fluctuated in muted fashion, giving him little insight into her emotions. He pushed those concerns away.

Bobby took note of his approach and turned to face him. "Guildmaster." He inclined his head in a bow, his stance formal. But, Remy reflected, he was astute enough to know when the casual ease that usually characterized their relationship would be inappropriate.

Remy returned the nod. "Bobby. Y' got de tapes delivered?"

"Handed them over to Trish myself."

Rogue's fingers tightened on his. "How is she doin'?" she asked. Remy wasn't terribly surprised Trish had already rejoined her news crew, though he suspected she'd done so over her doctor's protests.

Bobby shrugged. "She's managing, I guess. She said they're going to try to have their report out in time to catch the evening news cycle. Apparently she has email addresses for just about every major news director out there, so they're going to send it to all of her contacts at the same time they post it on Freedom Net."

Remy raised his eyebrows. "Be interesting to see how many of them run it."

"Yeah." Bobby looked toward the people gathered a short distance away. "Any word on Adrian yet?" Remy saw the flickers that told him Adrian's family had noticed their conversation even if they pretended otherwise.

He shook his head. "Nothing so far."

The woman who had recently arrived stood, her hands moving as if she were smoothing her skirt. With a brief word to the others, she straightened her shoulders and walked over to where he and Bobby stood. To Remy's surprise, Bobby's signature flared, the brilliant colors screaming apprehension and alarm though his body language betrayed none of it. He obviously knew this woman but Remy had no time to wonder about his reaction.

"Guildmaster." The woman extended her hand, her demeanor calm and self-assured. "We haven't met. My name is Marjorie Tyre."

"Madam." Wary, Remy took her hand, finding her skin smooth like parchment and her grip strong. Bobby's reaction had brought his warning instincts to life, so he kept his reaction as neutral as possible.

Releasing his hand, she turned to Rogue. "Mistress." Her tone was polite, but underlain with steel.

Rogue acknowledged her with a nod. "Ms. Tyre." She glanced over at the others. "How are ya related ta Adrian, if ya don't mind mah askin'?"

Marjorie stiffened, the barest flicker of a reaction, and raised her chin. "He's my nephew." She turned toward Remy. "Michael was my son."

Remy froze, his stomach curling into a hard knot. He felt Rogue tense beside him and squeezed her hand in silent warning. A dozen possible responses leapt onto his tongue, but he bit them all back. There was absolutely nothing he could say to the mother of the man he'd killed that would make anything better. Chances were they'd only make things worse.

After a moment, Marjorie tipped her head to the side. "Well, I appreciate the lack of trite platitudes from you." Remy had the feeling that if he could see her gaze, he would find it flinty. "I didn't agree with some of Michael's decisions, but he was still my son."

Remy acknowledged the rebuke with a nod, but he was saved from any further response as one of the doors opened on the far side of the room opened to admit Doctor Lancaster. Hank trailed a few steps behind him. Remy read weary regret from both of them and knew the news couldn't be good.

Adrian's parents and those gathered with them all stood, their signatures spiking with nervous apprehension. Marjorie, too, turned to face the doctors.

Doctor Lancaster shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said. "Adrian's injuries were just too severe. We did everything we could."

Adrian's mother immediately crumbled into tears against her husband. Carson's wife reached out to lay a comforting hand on her back, speaking to her in low tones.

Rogue let go of Remy's hand and staggered to the nearest chair. She sank into it, wrapping both arms around her stomach and rocking slowly back and forth. Alarmed, he followed her. All he could feel at the news was a kind of sick relief. He had no idea what to make of her reaction.

"Rogue?" He knelt beside her chair and laid a hand on her knee.

She stopped rocking and shook her head. "Don't, sugah." She was breathing in short gasps, her voice full of pain. "Ah can't talk about this. Not… to you." She shook her head. "Not about _him_." She pressed the back of one hand to her mouth as if she were fighting not to be sick.

It was all Remy could do to grab hold of the rage that exploded inside him at her words. Adrian had hurt her far more deeply than he'd let himself believe and his death had just torn the scabs off of those wounds.

And there was not a thing Remy could do except watch her bleed.

Silently cursing himself for ever letting her get anywhere near him, he gathered Rogue into his arms and held her while her silent tears dampened his collar.


	47. Chapter 47

Author's Note: Sorry everyone. This chapter took a lot longer than I anticipated. I got about half way through, decided I didn't like where I was going, so I had to scrap it and start over. Plus the fact that I have four kids and it's almost Christmas  Anyway, enjoy and I'll try not to take so long with the next one.

Valerie

Chapter 47

Jubilee shivered as a cold wind whipped around the corner of the building. Gray clouds scudded across the slice of sky visible between the towering Manhattan skyscrapers, promising rain. As if on cue, a fat raindrop splattered on her forehead. Grimacing, she wiped it away, running her hand across the silky, inch-long stubble covering her scalp for good measure.

She picked up her pace. She was going to get drenched before she got back to the Worthington building if she didn't hurry.

_How did I become the X-Men's personal messenger service, anyway?_ she wondered irritably. Particularly since the X-Men refused to let her anywhere near wherever their base of operations was. All direct contact with the X-Men was handled through Warren and WI. They trusted her enough to have her running packages back and forth between Hank and Dr. Reyes, but not enough to let her live with them.

Her hands curled involuntarily into fists at her sides. She couldn't blame them, really. They were smart not to want to give her another chance to betray them.

She wrapped her coat more tightly about her frame and leaned into the biting wind. Sporadic raindrops splashed down, leaving leprous splotches on the cement. Around her, people began breaking out umbrellas and turning up their collars, their pace never slowing.

She was still a good ten blocks from Worthington Industries when a kind of warning thrill went through the crowd on the sidewalk. It wasn't like anyone screamed or anything, Jubilee thought—there was no commotion, no sense of panic. Instead, people put their heads down and plowed on with singleminded determination as if by ignoring it they would in turn be overlooked.

Jubilee's stride faltered as she looked around for the source of the sudden disquiet that had seized the street. People brushed by her, some bumping her forcefully enough to stagger her. Jubilee reeled, her sense of danger growing with every passing minute.

Rain spattered her face, ignored as she caught sight of the prime sentinel that walked calmly down the center of the sidewalk. A bubble of empty space surrounded it, the crowd parting like magic to let it pass unmolested.

Jubilee froze. Pure, unadulterated panic slammed through her. She turned instinctively to run, but the crowd at her back formed a human wall that marched relentlessly forward, shoving her before them. Helplessly caught in the crowd, Jubilee was dragged toward the sentinel.

_But I'm a mutant!_ she wanted to shout. _Please! Let me through!_ The words lodged in her throat and left her unable to utter a sound.

Time seemed to slow as Jubilee found herself forced toward the inside edge of the bubble surrounding the sentinel. People kept their heads down, never looking directly at the empty, glowing eyes, the slack face.

Jubilee couldn't look away. The constant pressure at her back sent her staggering into the open a few steps in front of the sentinel, and there she jerked to a halt. The sentinel, too, paused as if surprised by the unexpected presence of a being in its path.

Trembling, Jubilee waited for it to raise its arms—waited for the flash of laser fire that would cut her down. The skin across her forehead tingled in anticipation and little fizzles lanced through her head, making her brain itch.

But after an endless moment of simply staring at her, the sentinel nodded in an almost human gesture of acceptance, stepped around her, and continued on.

Jubilee turned to stare after its retreating figure, her mouth hanging open. It was only then that she realized she knew its identification number, a long alphanumeric string by which it identified itself to other sentinels and to the master uplink.

US-4133-W829-64017

The identification code burned inside her mind as if it had been etched in fire on the inside of her skull. Even more frightening was the realization that she would be able to tell that sentinel from the thousands of others just like it. She knew it now. She knew its ID string.

Jubilee paused, cold tendrils of fear coiling in her stomach.

And it knew hers.

#-#-#-#

Bastion sat behind a wide desk in a room made entirely of metal on board his space station. There were no human luxuries in the room—no carpet, no padding on the chair, no paintings or other splashes of color to break the silver monotony. His only concession to the mass humanity over which he'd been appointed protector was his clothing—the fact that he wore any at all. Still, the solid black jumpsuit was as utilitarian as he could make it.

A large screen mounted on the far wall displayed news from around the globe in a series of overlapping windows. Currently, the one that held his interest was a recorded interview being broadcast from New York.

"In light of the remarkable revelations of the past few days, I know there are many questions people would like to ask of both you and the X-Men," the interviewer, a distinguished-looking man in his early forties said.

Across from him, the mutant known as Cyclops nodded. "I'll be happy to answer anything I can." A plain curtain formed the backdrop for the interview, giving no clues as to where this had been filmed. Cyclops was dressed in the new uniform the team had adopted and wore a sidearm holstered at his hip. An automatic rifle was barely visible, propped against the far side of his chair.

Bastion glowered at the screen. The X-Men were a plague he could not seem to get rid of. Their tenacity and resources alternately infuriated and astounded him. Even without their powers they'd proven to be incredibly resilient.

"First," the interviewer went on, "can you tell me what it has been like to be a mutant these past few months?"

Cyclops raised his eyebrows, his expression diffident. "I'm not sure our experience could be considered in any way representative of what mutants as a whole have faced. Those of us with alpha-level powers are such a small fraction of the mutant population…"

"What you're calling alpha powers, the rest of us would simply call super powers, correct?"

Cyclops shrugged. "I guess. But most mutants don't have dangerous powers."

The interviewer cocked his head. "For most mutants, then, the OZT field itself wouldn't have made much of a difference."

Cyclops' expression hardened. "Except for those whose ability to survive depended on their mutation… no, probably not."

The interviewer seemed to accept the rebuke, though Bastion doubted he was showing his real feelings. That wasn't his job. "Returning to my original question, then… What was the impact of the damping field on the X-Men?"

For a moment, Cyclops simply stared at him. Bastion found himself leaning forward, drawn by the tantalizing opportunity to study his enemy.

"At first it was devastating," Cyclops finally said. "Several mutants we knew—dear friends—died when the field was activated."

"And the loss of your powers? To no longer be able to fly, or control the weather—" A faint smile touched the interviewer's lips, "—or shoot laser beams out of your eyes?"

Cyclops flashed a wry grin. "They aren't lasers."

"You still haven't answered my question."

Cyclops inclined his head, acknowledging the point, and his smile died. "It was frightening… intimidating." He shrugged. "But in some ways it was a relief, too."

The interviewer gave him a surprised look. "A relief?"

"Yes." He spread his hands. "No more powers… no more responsibility. No more having to go out there—" he gestured offstage. "No more putting our lives on the line to try to protect a world full of people who would just as soon we not exist."

Bastion pondered the odd tone in Cyclops' voice for several moments before concluding that it was sarcasm. He frowned. Sarcasm was one of those human complexities that escaped him.

The man leading the interview, however, didn't seem to have any trouble interpreting Cyclops' tone. He gave the X-Man an appraising look. "And yet you're still fighting. Without powers this time."

Cyclops nodded. "We're fighting for our lives. The prime sentinels are programmed to kill mutants on sight."

The interviewer's tone took on a slight edge. "Let's talk about the prime sentinels, then." He shifted in his seat. "The tape that journalist Trish Tilby shot during your raid on the Virginia prime sentinels facility has been widely shown over the past few days, and I must say that some of the images are simply astounding. Horrifying. The idea that these are _people_ being transformed into these monsters…" He shook his head.

Bastion leaned back in his seat, disgusted by the weakness he saw in the interviewer, and by extension humanity itself. This was why they needed someone to save them. What did it matter that a few were being sacrificed for the sake of the many?

The door behind Bastion slid open in a hiss of pneumatics. He glanced over his shoulder as Bill Green walked in. Bill was as nondescript as his name, a middle-aged man of middle height with unremarkable features and a crop of short, sandy-colored hair. He was also Bastion's right hand man and as passionate about the threat of mutants as Bastion himself.

Bill nodded in greeting as he came into the room. "I think we have an answer for how they immobilized the sentinels," he said. He carried a circular device made of metal in one hand.

Bastion turned away from the interview, his interest sharpening. "How?" Every scenario they'd ever run on potential methods of assault on a prime sentinels facility had ended with the assailants falling to a wave of sentinels emerging from the interior of the factory. No one had ever hypothesized that their enemies might find a way to neutralize the sentinels first. In retrospect, the short-sightedness of that assumption appalled him.

"They invented a paralyzing agent that works on the nannites." Bill raised the device in his hand and held it out toward Bastion. "This is how they disseminated it. We found four of these in the main air exchange system on the third floor." He crossed his arms. "The paralyzer works fast. Only two of the sentinels in the factory were able to recognize there was a threat and send a distress call before their systems locked up."

Bastion took the device, turning it over in his hands. "This is Reed Richards' work," he said after a moment. The design of the device was similar to some other things the leader of the Fantastic Four had invented over the years.

Bill nodded again. "Yes, though we suspect it's probably equipment the X-Men brought with them from their Westchester base."

"Is it possible they're in communication with the Fantastic Four now?" Bastion handed the device back to Bill with a frown. "Those new uniforms look like Richards' work as well."

Bill shrugged uncomfortably. "I know, but we have the building physically isolated. No one and nothing can get in or out without us noticing."

"We didn't think anyone could infiltrate a prime sentinels manufacturing site, either," Bastion pointed out.

A faint flush stained Bill's cheeks. "Yes, sir. I'll have the security measures reviewed."

Bastion pretended not to notice. He had learned humans did not perform well when their emotional reactions were pointed out to them. "Is this paralyzing agent something the X-Men's Dr. McCoy could have developed?"

"With a good lab, yes." Bill glanced at the screen, which continued to show the Cyclops interview. "The question is where the X-Men could have gotten that kind of equipment and how they're managing to keep it hidden. That takes money. And contacts." Bill had spent years with both the FBI and Black Air, and Bastion trusted his analysis of such things.

"You think they had help?"

"They almost had to have." Bill went to the computer terminal built into Bastion's desk and typed a few commands. A new window opened up on the screen, showing a still image that had almost certainly been taken from the Tilby woman's tape. In it, the journalist stood in front of a metal door, her microphone held to her face. Behind her, Bastion could barely make out two figures kneeling in front of the security door at her back.

"This is the door leading from the south tunnel into the manufacturing core area. You can tell by the ceramic wall there." He pointed to the white material that framed Tilby. "Which means they got through both security doors at the ends of the tunnel as well as the laser array in the middle without setting off any alarms. I talked to the people that designed the tunnels for us, and they say there are only a handful of men in the world who could do that." He straightened. "Add that to what it would take to even get to that point in the first place and the list gets narrowed down to two… maybe three."

Bastion tapped his finger against his lips. "Do we know who those two or three are?"

Bill shook his head. "No. We're talking Thieves Guild here. Information is hard to come by."

Bastion studied the image and the two indistinct figures. "Those two are X-Men, correct?"

Bill nodded. "That one—Gambit—almost certainly has Guild connections of some sort." He pointed to one of the figures the screen. "There's an outside chance that he _is_ one of the three that could do this. That would explain a lot."

Bastion frowned as he considered the implications. "Well, we may have to do something about this Gambit, then."

"Yes—" Bill began, but a chime from the computer system interrupted him.

Bastion pulled up the attendant message. A slow smile spread across his face as he read the contents. The prototype sentinel that inhabited the body of the X-Man Jubilee had finally made contact. He hadn't known for certain that the girl was still alive until he'd seen her being interviewed as part of the Tilby woman's report. But alive she was, and in contact with the X-Men.

He scrolled down through the status report while Bill read over his shoulder.

"Her transformation nodes have all been destroyed," Bill commented.

Bastion nodded absently. "The standard suite, yes." He glanced up at the other. "I'd be very interested to know how that was done. And by whom."

"I'll find out," Bill said.

#-#-#-#

Logan stepped into the waiting room of a seedy little Greyhound bus station on the Lower East Side, his gaze roving the interior impatiently. The place smelled like a locker room, an unpleasant mix of mildew and poor hygiene. Rows of faded brown plastic chairs filled the center of the space while rows of red and blue lockers lined the walls. At the far end of the room, the ticket counter was manned by an older man who didn't look like he'd bathed in days. Scratched Plexiglass hemmed him in and a wire rack filled with maps and dog-eared paperbacks flanked the counter, offering dubious distraction to those waiting for their buses.

Logan's gaze jumped to a dark-haired form slumped in one of the plastic chairs. His breath whooshed out of him in a sigh of pure relief. He wasn't too late. Shoving his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, he crossed the space that separated them.

Jubilee looked up at his approach, her face showing only the faintest traces of surprise. Logan was struck by how thin she was. She had the bruised, hollow-cheeked look he associated with starvation and war time, and her eyes were red-rimmed with old tears.

"How did you find me?" she asked as he dropped into the empty chair beside her.

Logan stretched his legs out in front of him and crossed his ankles. "Warren called me. Said ya'd called him in a panic." He lowered his voice. "Somethin' about still bein' a sentinel an' bein' a danger ta the X-Men." He shrugged, resuming a normal volume. "I figured ya'd try ta leave town."

Jubilee didn't look at him. "I am, you know. Dangerous." She fingered the scars that ran up the insides of her forearms, her gaze focused straight ahead. "I'm a monster."

Logan tried to contain the fury that ripped through him but he found himself growling, an instinctive warning noise just barely above the hearing threshold. "Don't ya dare let me hear ya say somethin' like that again, darlin'," he warned her. His stomach twisted and heaved at the note of despair he heard in her voice. "Yer not a monster. Yer just a girl who's been dealt a lot of crap in her life."

She sniffled a bit and then sighed, sinking deeper in her chair. "I knew I shouldn't have called Warren. Did he tell you what happened?"

Logan shook his head. "I don't think he understood half o' what ya told him."

She shrugged. "Yeah, I was pretty freaked."

Logan waited a couple of moments to see if she would go on. "So what did happen today?" he asked when it became obvious she wasn't going to volunteer anything further.

She glanced at him with her dark, unfathomable eyes, and just as quickly looked away. "I talked to a sentinel," she told him.

Logan blinked. "_Talked_ to it?"

She rubbed a hand across her short hair, the motion uneasy. "Sort of. We just stared at each other, but the inside of my head started tingling and suddenly I knew a bunch of stuff about it." She bit her lip. "Its ID number, its patrol assignment, the last time it went in for a systems diagnostic…"

The soldier inside Logan sat up in sudden interest. The tactical advantage that kind of intel could give them…

Jubilee let her hand fall into her lap. "But I think—I'm pretty sure—I told it the same information about me."

She looked directly at Logan for the first time, quiet desperation in her gaze. "I have to get away from the X-Men and the resistance, Logan. Don't you see? I didn't _escape_ from OZT. Bastion let me go. It was all a set up. He let me see the Professor so I'd for sure go looking for the X-Men, and then he let me escape so he could use me to get to you."

Logan could only stare at her. What she said made entirely too much sense for him to dismiss, as much as he longed to. It honestly wasn't even that much of a shock. The idea of allowing Jubilee into the thieves' complex had only come up once, to be met with Gambit's immediate, emphatic refusal. No one had argued because they all understood what kind of potential threat she represented. When Warren volunteered to let her stay at Worthington Industries, it had given them a reasonable means of keeping her safe without exposing the X-Men or the mutants of the Guild.

A voice came over the loudspeaker then, announcing that bus 4703 to Los Angeles was now boarding.

"That's mine," Jubilee said. She pulled her ticket from her coat pocket and prepared to stand.

Logan caught her arm. "Don't go, darlin'." Jubilee paused and he tightened his grip. "Even if everything ya just told me is true, it doesn't matter. We can play the counter-intelligence game with Bastion. Don't let him make you run." He held his breath, not daring to hope that his words would get through to her. If she disappeared now, who knew how long it would be before he could find her again. The idea of not knowing where she was—again—frightened him down to his very core.

"I don't want to leave," she finally admitted, her voice small, and Logan felt his heart begin to unclench.

"But what if I really am just a trap for the X-Men?" She toyed with the corner of her bus ticket.

"Then we'll find a way ta turn it back on Bastion." Logan forced himself to let go of her arm and instead slipped his hand beneath hers. After a moment her fingers tightened.

Logan marveled at how small her hand seemed in his. He absently stroked her knuckles while he organized his thoughts. "Bastion may not know your transformation tech has been disabled," he finally said. "He might have turned ya loose thinkin' ya'd find us and immediately transform. If that was his plan, it's already failed." He shrugged, trying to project certainty. There were some rather nasty other possibilities out there, too, which he would have to talk over with Scott and Remy. But he wasn't going to let Jubilee see his doubts.

The speakers crackled to life again, announcing the last call for bus 4703 to Los Angeles. Jubilee didn't move. She stared at the floor, eyes unfocused.

"C'mon, darlin'," he finally said. He tugged lightly on her hand. "Let's go home."

She shook herself and looked up at him. "Okay," she finally said. Her expression sharpened with something like her normal wit. "But you'd better be right, dude."

Logan found himself smiling.

#-#-#-#

By the time Logan returned to the complex it was well after midnight. At Jubilee's insistence, he'd made all the requisite calls from Worthington Industries when he dropped her off—first to Scott to get his assessment, and then to Dr. Reyes, Reed Richards and Moira McTaggert—to warn them of the possible threat.

He yawned as he walked into the large cavern that served as the Guild's communal cafeteria. There were a fair number of people about. The thieves kept late hours, and at this time of night the room had some of the feel of a neighborhood bar and grill. He smiled to himself. All they needed was a pool table.

Logan nodded to a couple of people he knew as he made his way toward the small buffet that was always stocked, no matter what the hour. He'd missed dinner.

A figure seated alone at the end of one of the tables caught his eye and he altered his course. Dinner could wait a few minutes.

Rogue sat with her back to him. She was dressed for the Guild's high-dollar club in a gauzy, dove gray gown whose long skirt pooled like water on the floor at her feet. A small fortune in diamonds glittered at her throat, her ears, her wrist. She stirred a mug of coffee with one hand, seeming lost in thought.

Logan settled across the table from her and rested his weight on his elbows. "Hey, Rogue. How's tricks?" he asked conversationally.

She looked up from her coffee and offered him a tired smile. "Hi, sugah." Setting the spoon aside, she took a sip.

Logan glanced around the room. "Where's your other half?"

"Workin' still." She set her mug back down and wrapped both hands around it. "Tryin' ta hammer out contract details with a client who won't accept that OZT raises the cost o' getting' what he wants."

Logan raised both eyebrows at the apparent ease with which she talked about a thieving contract. He shouldn't be surprised, he knew, but he was. This woman bore little resemblance to the Rogue of a year ago, or even six months ago.

He cocked his head, studying her.

"What?" she asked after a minute.

He shrugged. "Nothin', darlin'. Just noticin' how much ya've changed." A smile curved his lips. "I'm not sure I can even see the old Rogue in ya any more." As far as he was concerned, that was a good thing. He'd like the old Rogue plenty, but this one was the kind of woman to take your breath away.

Rogue's gaze grew distant. "Yeah." She stared down into her coffee cup as if it held the answers to the universe. "Ah've been havin' that problem lately mahself."

Logan leaned back in his chair, dismayed by her tone. "You regret yer choices?" he asked more harshly than he intended.

Rogue's head jerked up. She met his gaze briefly, her green eyes shadowed and wounded, then looked away.

"It's not like that," she finally said. "Ah knew what ah was doin' when ah chose this life—what ah was gettin' mahself into." She sighed and toyed with the string of diamonds decorating her wrist. "This is who ah am. It suits me." She shrugged. "But it's hard ta let go of the person ah always thought ah wanted ta be."

Logan understood the sentiment all too well. "It does suit ya, darlin'," he answered after a moment. When she looked up at him, he went on. "People like us don't get ta live in peace. Trouble always comes lookin', an' we can either spend our lives runnin' away or we can dig in an' fight." He shrugged. "It sucks, but those are the choices."

A hint of a smile lit her features, which died almost immediately. "Ah always thought as was a fighter," she said, her voice contemplative. "But ah think ah've really spent most o' mah life runnin'." She brushed an errant hair out of her face. "Mah powers just made it easier."

Logan didn't respond immediately. Instead, he studied her, noting the slumped line of her shoulders and the way her gaze kept darting past his face.

"Tell me what's going on, Rogue," he finally said. Whatever it was, it was eating her up from the inside.

She bit her lip, her eyes suddenly shining with unspilled tears. "Ah am so scared, Logan."

He had no immediate answer to that, so he just sat quietly and waited for her to go on.

Rogue brushed the moisture from her eyelashes in the way women did when they were trying not to mess up their makeup. "Until ah married Remy, ah had no idea ah could _feel_ so much." She laced her fingers together, a faint blush marking her cheeks. "An' not just because ah couldn't touch before, though that's part of it. Did ya know that the invulnerability ah absorbed from Carol had the side effect of numbin' me—what ah could feel?"

Logan shook his head, feeling the bite of shame. Rogue had never said much at all about the effects of her powers, and no one—other than Gambit—had made more than a token effort to pry the information out of her.

Rogue shrugged. "Beast could give ya the whole explanation about chemical receptors an' all, but that's basically what it boiled down ta. Ya had ta smash me into a building before ah could actually feel it." She looked down at her hands. "An' ah wanted ta be that way on the inside, too. Even though ah said ah didn't, ah did. Bein' invulnerable doesn't protect ya from ya own emotions, so I kept trying ta push people farther and farther away."

"Until Gumbo came along an' wouldn't have any of it," Logan hazarded and was rewarded with a sudden, brilliant smile.

Rogue shook her head ruefully. "That man…" Her smile faded, replaced by a solemn expression. "No, he wasn't havin' any of it. Never did. Every time ah thought ah'd kicked him out of mah heart foh good, he'd find some new way ta sneak back in."

Logan had to chuckle at her description. For the longest time he'd wondered what drove Remy to beat his head against that particular wall time and time again, and had eventually been forced to conclude it could only be love.

He sobered after a bit. "So what's got ya scared now?" So far, everything she'd said sounded like healthy self-awareness.

"Ah—" She raised a hand to her throat, fingering her necklace. The action betrayed an acute discomfort that immediately set Logan's nerves on edge.

She looked upward as if pleading with the heavens for courage. "Adrian," she finally said and dropped her gaze to his. She swallowed convulsively. "Ah can't stop thinkin' about… what he did to me."

Logan narrowed his eyes as he tried to interpret her statement. Hot anger churned up from his gut. "There were supposed ta be rules," he growled. "Limits."

Rogue pressed her lips together in a thin line. "He bent them."

The anger in Logan's gut threatened to become a boiling rage. "How far?"

Her expression turned pleading. "First, ya have ta promise ya won't say anything ta Remy. Ah just—" Her hands fluttered helplessly. "He _can't_ know how much Adrian hurt me. He can't."

Reluctant, Logan nodded. He understood why she'd want to keep this away from her husband, though he wasn't sure how much good it would do. The man was perceptive. But, the whole point of letting Adrian have her in the first place had been to hit the Guildmaster where it would hurt the most, so he understood why Rogue would be doing everything in her power not to deepen that wound.

The shadows surfaced in Rogue's eyes once again. "Adrian brought in an interrogation drug." She gave him the name.

Logan couldn't help the hard jolt that went through him. He'd seen that one used once. His stomach tried to crawl up his throat at the memory, and he had to swallow several times before he could speak.

"That stuff's nasty business," he managed in something close to a normal voice.

She nodded. "Yeah." She took a sip of her coffee and Logan could see her hands shaking. "Ah didn't know it was possible foh anything ta hurt that bad."

Cautiously Logan reached over to take one of her hands in his. "Adrian's dead, darlin'. He can't hurt ya any more." At the moment, he was rather glad Adrian had gone out the way he had. There was some karmic justice to it.

Rogue nodded. "Ah know. That's the weird part of it. Ah was okay while he was alive." She shrugged. "Now that he's dead… Ah don't know. Ah guess ah keep thinkin' ah should be safe now, but ah don't feel safe. Ah'm scared."

Suddenly, Logan understood. "Ya felt safe before because ya knew where the enemy was an' ya knew ya could handle him," he told her. "It's not knowin' where the next threat's gonna come from that's gettin' to ya now."

Her eyes widened in surprise, but then she nodded. "An' not knowin' how bad it's goin' ta be," she added after a moment.

"There's no cure fer that, darlin'." He gave her an evaluating stare, trying to figure out what would bolster her confidence the most. "But if ya ask me, yer tough enough ta take on just about anything out there. An' if not, the X-Men'll have yer back."

He was rewarded with a tremulous smile. "Thanks, sugah. Ah needed ta hear that."

"Yer welcome." He squeezed her hand.

She sighed gustily. "Well, ah'd better get ta bed. Ah can't even tell ya how tired ah am, an' tomorrow's goin' ta be crazy."

He raised an eyebrow. "What's going on tomorrow?" He hadn't heard anything from Scott.

Rogue levered herself to her feet. "The Guildmaster of Miami's arrivin' with about half of his council, ta talk about what they're goin' ta do ta help New York take on the cartels."

Logan snorted drolly. "Sounds like fun."

"Oh, joy." She rolled her eyes as she stepped away from the table. "Night, Logan," she said.

"Night, darlin'."

Logan watched her walk away with a sense of relief. Some of the crushing weight seemed to have fallen off her. Her steps were light, her head high as she made her way across the room.

It was as much as he could do for her.

Nodding to himself, Logan went in search of his dinner.


	48. Chapter 48

Chapter 48

Scott leaned back in his chair in Worthington Industries' meeting room, stretching his arms behind his back and rolling his neck while he waited for Warren to complete the complex encrypted link-up that allowed them to speak with the mutant underground, Excalibur and the Fantastic Four without OZT finding out.

On one side of him, Rogue and Logan chatted amiably about Guild matters while on the other, Ororo and Bishop were discussing the new mission the X-Men had begun putting together. At the far end of the room, Warren bent over a laptop as he worked on the connection. Gambit had been too busy waging his private war against the Colombian drug cartel to break away.

Scott snorted to himself. He hated drug dealers as much as the next guy, so he couldn't muster any real objection to the thieves dumping millions of dollars worth of stolen cocaine into the East River—or in the case of the Miami deliveries, the Gulf of Mexico—but he wished it didn't occupy so much of Remy's time and attention.

The fact that it was all fall out from Adrian's death was a fact Scott tried not to dwell on. He could still hear Remy's quiet warning echoing in his mind when he thought about it: _You don' want t' know, an' I ain't gon' tell y'._ In retrospect, Scott was forced to agree. And the fact that all of that manipulation and brutality had been for the sole purpose of keeping the X-Men alive meant he could do nothing but accept it and move on.

The large screen at the far end of the table dissolved into static and then filled with the familiar split screen showing their allies' faces.

"Good morning, X-Men," Moira greeted them solemnly. She, Kurt and Sean occupied the largest of the three images on the screen. Scott immediately noted that Sean wore a butterfly bandage across a short gash on his forehead, though the other two appeared unharmed. Excalibur had taken out an OZT fuel depot just outside Liverpool the day before.

"Good morning, Moira," Scott returned. He split his gaze between the three. "We saw the news last night. Nice work."

Banshee grinned at him. "Thanks to ye. We could nae have done it without yuir help."

"Any injuries?" Logan asked.

Sean shook his head. "None t' speak of."

Kurt leaned forward, his brow wrinkled in a frown. "Scott, do you know what kind of people these are that you've put us in contact with?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Scott saw Rogue tense, anger snapping in her gaze, and he reached over to lay a restraining hand on her arm.

"I can guess," he told Kurt dryly. He knew Excalibur had had direct contact with one or two British thieves, along with a variety of players in the shady world of arms dealing and freelance troubleshooting. He shrugged. "But those are the contacts you need to get the job done."

Sean shot the other man a clear warning look, and Kurt subsided with a shake of his head.

Scott quickly changed subjects. "Reed, you said you expected to have your launch vehicle design finalized by now. How is that coming?"

Interest sharpened around the virtual room at his words.

Reed cleared his throat. "I do have progress to report on that score," he began. "First, let me qualify that it isn't the vehicle design that has posed the most significant challenge in this exercise. It's the launch."

Scott's stomach tightened at his words. They _had_ to get into space if they wanted to stop OZT for good. "Go on," he said.

Reed nodded. "Because OZT has us isolated inside Four Freedoms Plaza, we have no choice but to build the vehicle here and launch it directly from the building. Realistically, the elevator shafts are our only option. Ben and I agree that we can cannibalize the four central elevator shafts and turn the core of the building into our launch tube." He glanced at something off screen before returning his attention to Scott. "However, the dimensions of the building core then size the fuel tanks on the launch vehicle, and those, in turn, determine the final dimensions of the vehicle itself."

He took a breath, his expression grim. "I've been through the calculations a dozen times and racked my brain for every out-of-the-box design solution I can think of, and each time I come back to the same thing: This is going to be a one-way trip." He shrugged. "I can get you into space, Scott, but that's it. You will have to find your own way home."

Scott absorbed the explanation with a kind of resolute dismay. They would either destroy the suppression field and get their powers back, or they would die. In the depths of his heart, he'd always suspected it would come down to that.

"Understood," he told Reed. "Which brings me to my next question: Assuming the launch goes as planned, are we going to be able to dock with OZT's space station without getting blown out of the sky?"

Reed nodded. "I believe so. I've been in contact with Valerie Cooper at the Pentagon and she says she'll be able to get us clearance codes."

"Nice," Rogue commented, her brows arching sharply over her green eyes.

Scott turned back to Reed. "Are OZT and the Pentagon still that closely aligned?" he asked. SHIELD's defection would indicate otherwise, in his mind.

Reed shrugged. "On paper, at least. I get the sense that they're very quietly backing away from OZT and hoping Bastion won't notice."

"Okay. I guess we'll have to leave that in your hands." He turned his attention to Cecilia Reyes. "Doctor, how is your NASA connection doing with figuring out who we need to talk to about getting the original plans for Bastion's space station?"

The station had once been part of the Magneto Protocols, but before that it had been a low-Earth scientific observatory operating under NASA's oversight. The Guild had managed to procure the change specs for the upgrade to the station under the Magneto Protocols, but they needed to know what the original structure had been, and that information, unsurprisingly, had not been kept with the Magneto files.

Cecilia gave him a glimpse of her usual, thin smile and nodded. "I just emailed the information to Warren a few minutes ago."

Scott glanced over at Warren, who gave him a thumbs-up to show that he'd received the email.

"All right." Scott clasped his hands together on the table in front of him. "I guess that covers everything I know of. Does anyone have anything else?"

Sean cleared his throat, looking sheepish. "Aye, there is one thing. I hate to ask for more money, especially after everything the X-Men have already done…"

Scott found himself smiling. "It goes fast. I understand." He wasn't responsible for the money in the X-Men's current circumstances, but he got to listen to both Warren and Remy ranting on the subject. WI wasn't in the best of financial shape after narrowly escaping OZT's illegal takeover. And the New York Guild, though it sat on three centuries worth of hoarded wealth, was beginning to burn down those resources under the dual strains of supporting the Guild's entire population and funding the X-Men's operations.

He shrugged. "Let us put our heads together and we'll see what we can do."

#-#-#-#

"Well hello, stranger."

Remy grinned at the warm, flirtatious note in his wife's voice as he closed the bedroom door behind him. "Hello y'self, cherie." She'd already been asleep when he came in last night and had been up and gone by the time he woke, so it had been most of twenty-four hours since they'd seen each other.

Rogue lay on her stomach in the middle of the bed, her feet kicked up like a teenager's as she worked on one of the laptops. With a groan she pushed the computer away and rolled over onto her back in a sinuous stretch.

His grin widened. "If dat ain' an invitation, I don' know what is." He slid out of his suit jacket, tossing it toward the desk chair with little concern for whether the garment made it, and stripped off his tie as he crossed the distance to the bed.

Rogue laughed as he crawled onto the bed beside her. He propped himself comfortably on one elbow and leaned down to kiss her. Rogue returned the kiss, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"Whatcha workin' on?" Remy asked when they parted.

She heaved a sigh. "Email."

"Ah." He ran a finger along the small gap between the bottom of her shirt and the top of her jeans, relishing the softness of her skin and the way she squirmed when he tickled her. "Anyt'ing important?"

"Well," she answered, her voice underlain with laughter, "Deidre an' ah have given up on translatin' anything that's not written with English letters, so other than weedin' out the natural male enhancement spam from those accounts, ya going ta have ta deal with 'em yaself."

He chuckled, and she went on. "Otherwise, not really. We're gettin' a lot o' requests from other Guilds foh information on how we're organizin' things here, so ah've been puttin' together a document ah can cut an' paste as needed." Her tone soured. "Oh, an' there's a formal request from MI-5 foh a thief ta help them with an intelligence op they're runnin'. The Guildmaster of Great Britain passed it on an' said ya owe him foh helpin' Excalibur."

Remy made a noncommittal sound. He was trying very hard to stay out of the current tension between Rogue and her brother. "All right. We'll probably have t' honor dat one. It'd be more trouble than it's worth t' refuse."

Rogue rolled away from him and with a sigh resumed her position in front of the laptop. Remy immediately missed her warmth.

"Okay, sugah. Ah can draft the reply now." She looked back over her shoulder at him. "Do ah send it to the Guildmaster or directly ta the MI-5 office?"

"MI-5. Send a separate note t' the Guildmaster tellin' him we're takin' it." Remy flopped onto his back and closed his eyes. The muted clacking of Rogue's fingers on the keyboard filled the stillness.

"So how'd yoh council meetin' go?" she asked after a moment.

Remy laced his hands behind his head. "I wish they'd jus' vote already." The process of selecting a council member to replace Adrian had turned out to be a painfully deliberate one. At least this last round of discussion had narrowed the choices to three and Remy had hopes of eventually bringing the matter to a close. None of the prospective appointees posed the kind of threat Adrian had. Two of them Remy believed he might even be able to count as allies, at least part of the time.

'What did I miss at Worthington?" he turned the question back on her.

"Scott hasn't filled ya in?"

Remy stifled a yawn. "He did. Doesn' mean he covered all the right details."

She chuckled and proceeded to give him a detailed recounting of the meeting. She didn't end up adding a great deal to what Scott had told him, but now he could be certain he wasn't missing anything important.

Rogue closed the laptop with a snap. "Enough business, sugah." She pushed it aside and crawled back to him.

Remy obligingly held his arms open as she snuggled down beside him and then wrapped her up in a hug. Contentment settled like a soft, warm weight in his chest. He absently stroked her hair, letting his thoughts wander. He didn't really know what to do with this kind of happiness. It felt real, though… perhaps because it had come at such a steep price. He only wished Rogue hadn't been forced to shoulder the lion's share of it.

He pressed a kiss into the part of her hair. "How are y' doin', chere?" he asked quietly. The first few days after Adrian's death had been hard. Hard on her, and hard for him to watch her suffer and not be able to do anything about it. But after a few days her spirit had rebounded, and now she seemed to be her usual, cheerful self.

She tensed, but just as quickly relaxed against him. "Ah'm good."

"Y' sure?" He knew he couldn't push too hard on this subject, but he needed to know she would be all right.

She raised her head to look at him, but Remy could only guess at the expression that might be on her face. "Really, sugah." Her voice was warm. She laid her head back down. "Besides, ah'm not the one who's up every other night with nighmares, hon."

Remy winced at that, but couldn't argue the point. The Morlocks, the sentinels, even that theater full of people one rainy night in Seattle…they haunted his dreams while his subconscious struggled to lay the bodies of the dead back in their graves.

"Those'll go away after a while," he finally said. "They always do."

She stroked his chest. "That ain't a very good solution. Trust me. Ah know."

Frustrated, Remy sat up, sliding his shoulder out from beneath her warm weight. How could he possibly explain the hammer blow of fear he felt at the very idea of trying to unravel that knot? He'd made his choices and sold his soul, and the road that had led him down wasn't one he could unwalk, even if he wanted to.

Leaning over, he rested his elbows on his knees and knotted his hands in his hair. Rogue sat quietly beside him, but he could imagine her twisting her hands in her lap the way she did when her feelings were hurt.

"Leave it, Rogue. Please."

Her weight shifted on the bed, though she made no move to leave. "Ah promised ah wouldn't press ya foh details," she said with a faint edge to her voice.

Silence filled the space between them then, a wordless gulf Remy had no idea how to cross. Eventually, Rogue sighed.

"How come ya never call me by mah name?"

Startled, Remy raised his head. "Huh?"

"Mah name. How come ya've never used it? Not even when we're… makin' love." She stumbled over the mention of sex, and he was certain that if he looked he would see a hot flush in her cheeks. Usually he found her embarrassment endearing, particularly given how uninhibited she'd become, but at the moment he was merely confused by the sudden change in topic.

"I got de sense y' didn't really want anybody using it," he finally answered. Her name was a piece of her that he'd always hoped she would give him one day—a gift even more precious than the ability to touch her—but circumstances had stolen that opportunity away.

"Ya not just anybody, Remy." She rested one hand on his back, her palm warm through the thin fabric of his shirt. "You're mah husband, the man ah love." She moved closer, laying her cheek on his shoulder and wrapping her arms around him.

Remy released the breath he didn't know he'd been holding and reached up to cover her hand with his. "Anna." He tasted her name, finding it even sweeter than he'd imagined. He'd never let himself use it, not even in the privacy of his own mind. He reached up to catch her face and drew her down for a kiss.

Rogue pulled back after a moment. She stared at him from a distance of a few inches. "Don't ya dare start shuttin' me out again," she said sternly. "Ah know ya don't want ta get inta the details, an' that's fine, but ya do _not_ get ta be all concerned about mah wellbein' an' then turn around an' refuse ta talk ta me about yours. Hear me?"

After a short internal argument, Remy surrendered. She had him dead to rights and he knew it. But it was hard to let her into the shadowed corners of his heart.

He let go of her and stared at the ground, rubbing his palms together as his unease coalesced. "I've got a lot o' blood on my hands, chere," he finally told her.

She made a rather generic sound of acknowledgment, but she returned to her previous position with her cheek pressed against his shoulder blade and her arms wrapped around his chest.

"Ah'm listenin'," she said once she'd settled. Remy didn't hear any condemnation in her voice.

"Y' were there for de mission debriefing, so y' know what we did t' all those sentinels inside de assembly plant."

Rogue nodded against his shoulder, and his hands closed involuntarily into fists.

"It shouldn't have been dat bad. De people inside them, dey already dead. All dat was left was de bodies. It shouldn't have been dat bad," he repeated, wishing he knew how to make the words true. "But it was. It felt like murder."

He shrugged. "So, dat's what I dream about. Walkin' down rows of innocent people, cuttin' their throats. Sometimes they're beggin' me not to, an' sometimes they're jus' _there_, helpless, an' Scott's tellin' me not to worry 'cause they don' count." He didn't mention the fact that Scott was sometimes Sinister, and a hard shudder ran through him at the memories that evoked.

Rogue squeezed him tight, her breath a warm, reassuring tingle against his neck. "It sounds awful, sugah."

He just nodded.

"Is there anything ah can do ta help?"

He reached up and covered her hand once more. "Jus' de fact that y' there, sleepin' next t' me, helps more than I can tell y'."

Rogue hugged him again. "Ah can do that, sugah."

#-#-#-#

Bastion studied the woman who walked into his office with great interest. She wasn't as tall as he'd expected, and it struck him that he'd had any expectation at all. That was a human thought process. He supposed she would be considered pretty, though her features were too sharp to fit with what he'd determined the Western standard of beauty to be. Her blond hair was pulled back in a set of shoulder-length braids.

A large man of African descent walked a couple of steps behind her, his face plastered with a scowl and his eyes darting distrustfully around the room. His gaze came to rest on the two CATs that flanked Bastion's desk, and a tiny widening of his eyes gave away his alarm.

The Cybernetic Attack Type sentinels—the newest addition to OZT's forces—looked very much like skeletal metal tigers. They stood approximately chest-high on a man and had a pair of laser cannons mounted on their shoulders. Bastion had concluded that a non-human-based enforcer had become necessary, particularly as the human opposition to his control gained strength.

Both CATs turned their heads to take in Bastion's visitors, shifting their weight to better align their weaponry with the new arrivals. Their titanium alloy claws scraped loudly on the floor as they lowered their jaws, scenting. Bastion had given them many behaviors that mimicked the predators after which they'd been fashioned, having discovered in his research that nearly all of mankind shared both awe and an instinctive fear of the large cats.

The woman did not acknowledge the two sentinels as she walked up to Bastion's desk and extended her hand. "Mr. Bastion, I'm Belladonna Boudreaux."

Bastion rose to his feet, but did not take her hand. He disliked touching humans. "Ms. Boudreaux. Your reputation precedes you."

After a moment, Belladonna let her hand fall. "Flattery isn' necessary." She gestured to her companion. "Dis is m' associate, Gris-Gris." She spoke with a strong accent Bastion identified as belonging to the southeastern United States somewhere.

Bastion nodded to the man, schooling his face into a pleasant expression. The man's scowl didn't change.

Bastion waved toward the single chair pulled up in front of his desk. "Please."

With a nod, Belladonna sat. Bastion noticed that she did not lean back in the chair or cross her legs but kept her weight forward, over her feet which were firmly planted on the ground. The man, Gris-Gris, took up a position just behind the chair.

Bastion resumed his place behind the desk.

"I assume y' arranged dis meeting f' a reason?" Belladonna asked after they'd all settled in their places.

"Indeed." Bastion folded his hands before him. "As I said before, your reputation precedes you, Ms. Boudreaux, and I have need of your particular… expertise." He paused. "But first, tell me what you think of the mutant issue."

Belladonna regarded him coolly, her thoughts sealed up behind a bland mask. "My opinion is unimportant. Those in m' profession don' take sides."

Bastion studied her for a moment before acquiescing. "Very well. Then I will simply proceed to the matter at hand. There is a certain mutant who has proven to be rather troubling to my organization—" He paused as Belladonna raised one hand.

"De way dis works," she told him, "is dat you give me a name, plus whatever additional information is needed t' make a positive identification, an' I give you a number." She lowered her hand. "If you agree to de number, y' wire half now t' the account number I give y', an' de ot'er half once de job is done. Regardless, we will have no further contact after dis meetin'."

Bastion raised his eyebrows, intrigued by the fearlessness with which she addressed him. "How can I be sure you will complete the…" he fished for a word that would not be objectionable to the assassin. "…endeavor?"

She gave him a rather predatory smile. "As y' said, Mr. Bastion, m' reputation precedes me. If I take de money, I'll finish de job, guaranteed. However, if f' some reason I am unable t' complete my contract, den I will return y' deposit plus five percent."

Bastion steepled his hands in front of his face, regarding Belladonna over the tips of his fingers. Bill had told him what the standard contract would entail, and this woman was widely regarded as one of the best, and most reliable, in her business. Plus, she was in a unique position to gain access to the man he wanted.

Finally, he nodded. "I accept your terms," he told her.

She looked pleased. "Bien." She tipped her head to the side. "The name?"

"Remy LeBeau."

Bastion had the distinct pleasure of seeing her eyes widen in surprise before the professional mask slid back into place. She stood abruptly.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Bastion, but I cannot accept y' proposal." Her expression hardened. "Family is off-limits."

"I was under the impression that Mr. LeBeau was your ex-husband."

Her expression once again disappeared behind the bland mask. "I'm sorry y' went t' so much trouble on my account, Mr. Bastion. M' answer is final." She began to turn away.

Bastion pulled a handgun from its holster attached to the underside of his desk and pointed it at her. "I'm afraid I can't take the risk of you warning Gambit or the X-Men." He pulled the trigger.

Belladonna whirled to face him, and with a guttural cry, twin halos of light surrounded her fists, expanding to overlap in front of her body. The bullet disappeared in a flash and sizzle, destroyed by her field. Bastion had forgotten she was a mutate.

The man, Gris-Gris, jumped back as high-energy directed fire from the two CATs pierced Belladonna's field, spearing her with multiple invisible beams. She convulsed, her blood splattering the chair, the desk and her companion as she collapsed.

Gris-Gris absently wiped the blood from his face as he knelt at Belladonna's side. She was obviously dead, her blue eyes open and unseeing, but he pressed his fingers to the side of her neck before letting his hand fall. He looked up at Bastion, anger snapping in his gaze.

"I make no claim o' family t' LeBeau," he said. He glanced warily at the CATs who remained poised, ready to fire. "I will accept y' contract."

Bastion was pleased by the CATs performance. Their reaction had been perfect, and their programming allowed them to act against humans, mutates and mutants alike.

He turned his attention to the man. "Why should I believe you have any particular ability to get close to Mr. LeBeau? The X-Men have proven extremely hard to find," he challenged.

Gris-Gris rose fluidly to his feet. He cocked his head, a small smile appearing on his face. "Someone has t' inform Misseur LeBeau of his wife's death, non?"


	49. Chapter 49

Chapter 49

Logan had never been a big fan of hospitals. They smelled of smelled of sickness, of suffering, and fear. Even with his powers damped, the smells of disinfectant and illness were enough to nauseate him. The basement warren where Cecilia Reyes and her group worked was a little better. The hospital smells were at least partially drowned by those of damp cement and mildew, but his stomach remained unsettled.

Seated next to him in the cramped cubbyhole Reyes claimed as an office, Scott Summers didn't seem to share his unease. He slouched casually in his chair, one elbow hooked around the back, and sipped the burnt coffee one of Reyes' people had brought them.

In a distant corner of his mind, Logan found it amusing that Scott had unconsciously begun adopting Remy's mannerisms. A year ago, Summers would have sat ramrod straight in that chair, hands on his thighs and his coffee untouched as they waited for Cecilia to return. He projected a lot more confidence these days—the dangerous kind that would make an enemy think twice before taking him on—and just a little bit of the rebellious arrogance that Gambit had turned into a trademark.

Of course, the adopting of mannerisms went both ways, and it was downright entertaining to watch Remy pull out some very proper, Scott-like bit of aplomb as he dealt with his Guild council. They'd turned into quite a pair, those two.

Logan filed those thoughts away as Cecilia breezed into the office, a set of manila folders clutched to her chest.

"I'm very sorry to keep you waiting," she said as she dumped the pile of folders on the corner of her desk and collapsed into her chair. "My appointment with the hospital administrator ran a little longer than I expected."

Scott set his coffee on the edge of the desk. "So the hospital is actively supporting your work here?" he asked.

"The administration is." Cecilia smoothed the lines of her white doctor's coat. "Only a few of the staff officially know we're here, though I'm sure the rumor mill has filled everyone else in."

Logan felt a stab of alarm at that and Scott's expression echoed him. "Aren't you worried about someone informing OZT?" Scott asked.

Cecilia leaned back in her chair with a shrug. "I'm sure they know we're here by now. What are they going to do? Assault a hospital?" She curled her fingers around the armrests of her chair. "Even OZT isn't that stupid. It would be a public relations nightmare."

Logan exchanged a glance with Scott, whose thoughts were clearly running along a similar vein.

"Ain't sure how much longer Bastion's gonna care about his public image," Logan said after a moment.

Cecilia's expression sharpened. "What do you mean?"

Scott shrugged. "He could afford to be a kinder, gentler tyrant when the general public was content to let him be in charge." Sarcasm tinged his voice. "That's not so true any more, and Bastion will eventually have to break out his big stick if he wants to keep the populace in line."

Logan snorted, amused despite himself. "What is this? Presidential quotes day?" That was something else that had changed about their Fearless Leader. He no longer seemed to view having a sense of humor as a sign of weakness.

Scott flashed a grin. "I'm impressed you caught that, Logan."

"You implyin' something, bub?" Logan scowled, but mostly for show. Trading barbs with Cyclops made for a nice distraction from the hospital smells.

"Not I," Scott replied innocently and turned his attention back to Cecilia. His tone turned serious. "So what kind of escape plan do you have if OZT ever does come looking for you here?"

The doctor arched both eyebrows sharply, as if the question had taken her by surprise. "We have a safe room, if that's what you mean." She gestured toward the doorway and the warren beyond. "It used to be a nuclear bomb shelter back in the '50s. It's built like a bank vault and has its own water and air systems, believe it or not." She shrugged. "A couple of my guys have been refurbishing it in their spare time."

Scott frowned. "Well, it's something, at least."

Logan leaned forward, capturing the doctor's attention before Scott could go off on another tangent. "You said ya had some news on Jubilee that ya wanted ta discuss, Doc."

That was the other reason his stomach continued to churn. Jubilee had been through so much already—had her spirit beaten so close to the breaking point—that the prospect of anything else happening to her was almost more than he could stand. But the fact that something inside her was able to communicate with Bastion's sentinels was a potential threat they couldn't ignore.

Cecilia nodded, her expression solemn. "Yes, though let me get Louis in here to explain since he's the expert." She wheeled her chair backward to the doorway and leaned out into the hall to shout, "Louis!" in an impressive drill sergeant's tone.

"Coming," a man's voice answered from somewhere down the hall. A few moments later, a slender man of Asian heritage stuck his head in the door. "You rang?" Logan vaguely remembered him as the ex-NASA engineer he'd met when he first learned Jubilee was alive. Louis' gaze roved across the two X-Men, his cheerful expression dimming.

"Grab a seat," Cecilia said.

Louis came into the room and settled on the corner of the desk. The doctor opened one of the drawers and pulled out a thick file, which she laid out beside Louis.

"All right." Cecilia spent a minute collecting herself, then split her gaze between Logan and Scott. "As you both know, we did some extensive imaging of Jubilee's brain before we destroyed her transformation control microcomputers." She pulled several sheets of film from the file, setting them on the edge of the desk where the X-Men could see their shadowy surfaces.

Logan picked one up and held it up to the light. Having little medical training, he could make no sense of the blotches of gray, streaked with long, thin black streamers.

"That's the pre-transformation neural net," Cecilia said. Picking up her pen, she pointed to several dark lumps that lay along the black lines like beads on a string. "And these are the microcomputers. The transformation control is handled by a group of seven computers—" she pointed briskly with her pen to widely scattered black dots, "—of which we managed to destroy six. More than enough to keep her from ever becoming a full-blown sentinel."

Logan frowned as he studied the image in his hand. He'd heard the basic explanation of the doctor's procedure before, so only kept half an ear on what she was saying. Instead, he was staring at the many layers of the neural net, visible as decreasingly distinct shadows behind the prominent black outlines of the front-most layers. He'd never realized just how extensive it was.

"What about the rest of 'em?" he finally asked. "There have ta be thirty or forty o' these microcomputers in this shot alone." He shook the film in emphasis, eliciting a plastic rattle from the thin sheet.

Cecilia glanced at Louis.

"They're inert, for the most part," Louis answered. "The vast majority don't even boot up until the transformed version of the neural net is in place."

"But obviously something is functioning," Scott said, "if Jubilee was able to exchange information with a full sentinel."

Louis nodded. "Yes, which is what we wanted to talk to you about." He fished through the stack until he came up with another piece of film. He pulled it out and held it up to show the two X-Men. "Unlike the other sentinels we've examined, Jubilee has an extra set of microcomputers here—" he pointed to the image, where a tight cluster of black dots formed a marble-sized lump, "—near the center of her brain."

A chill descended on Logan, like icy fingers wrapping around his throat.

"Extra?" Scott asked before Logan could find his voice.

Louis nodded.

"What do they do?"

Louis shrugged. "We don't know. But, given that we've never found a functional communication system in a pre-transformation sentinel before, Jubilee's ability to send and receive data to other sentinels is almost certainly coming from these additional nodes."

Logan held out his hand for the piece of film, which Louis obligingly handed him. He studied it intently, noting the pale outlines of vertebrae near the bottom of the image and the dip and curve of the base of Jubilee's skull. Using those he was able to orient himself and imagine just exactly where the functioning microcomputers sat inside her head.

That understanding only made the cold hand tighten, choking him. "Can ya zap 'em like ya did the others?" he asked with a quick glance up at Cecilia.

He wasn't surprised when the doctor shook her head. "Given their location, I'd be afraid to try without a very good reason," Cecilia answered. "We'd have to cut through a lot of brain tissue to get to them—the risk of death or significant impairment would be… high."

"Weren't those a risk with the first surgery?" A long vertical furrow marred Scott's brow.

Cecilia picked up the first image she'd shown them. "Not really. The transformation control nodes are located in the frontal lobe and are much closer to the surface, so to speak." She looked at the picture as she spoke. "The biggest risk there was triggering the transformation before the nodes could be destroyed."

Scott sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Is there any way to find out exactly what these nodes are? What they do?"

This time Louis answered. "I'm afraid not. We've got a pretty good idea what many of the others do because we've been able to hook them up to signal generating equipment and look at the outputs." His expression turned diffident. "But we have to remove the microcomputers from the sentinel to do that."

Logan suffered a momentary image of Jubilee with her skull torn open as the scientist dissected the network inside, and shook his head sharply. No, he wouldn't let that happen. Not to Jubilee.

Scott's thoughts had apparently gone down a different path. "If you know that much about how the sentinels' microcomputers work, would it be possible to corrupt them somehow? Like a computer virus?"

Louis shrugged apologetically. "Easier said than done, I'm afraid. Their software is self-contained, and there are a lot of redundancies in place to protect them from component failures and bad data."

Scott opened his mouth to say something else, but a young woman stuck her head inside the office before he could speak.

"Sorry to interrupt, Doctor, but there's a call for you." She glanced over at the X-Men. "And for them, maybe. It's X-Force."

Logan saw the sudden flash of emotion in Scott's eyes, quickly hidden. "Cable?" the X-Men's leader asked.

"We'll find out." Cecilia punched the speaker button on the phone on her desk and then folded her hands in front of her. "This is Doctor Reyes," she told the person on the other end of the line.

"Hey, Doc. Good to hear your voice again." Cable's deep voice rumbled out of the phone.

"And yours, Nathan," Cecilia answered, her lips curving in the most genuine smile Logan had yet seen from her. "You picked a good time to call. I happen to have a couple of X-Men in my office."

There was a short moment of surprised silence on the far end.

"Hello, Nathan," Scott said into the gap. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he stared intently at the phone.

"Oath. Is that you, Scott?" Cable asked. To Logan he sounded incredibly tired.

Scott smiled one of his tight smiles, the kind that held a wealth of emotion bottled up behind it. "It's me. How are you? How's your team? Is everyone all right?"

"We're fine," Cable answered after a moment, his tone hard. "Had a close call a couple of days ago but we made it out." Logan heard the edge in his voice, but couldn't immediately identify the emotion that fueled it.

Scott, too, seemed to sense the undercurrent in his son's words. "What happened?" he asked, clasping his hands together and resting his knuckles against the side of the desk.

Cable made a sharp noise. "First, do you want to tell me how you have people in _Chicago_ who can dig up a secure safe house on a moment's notice, Cyclops?"

Logan and Scott traded glances.

"Is that where you are right now?" Scott asked after a moment.

"Yes," Cable answered. "Who are these people, Scott? We had four sentinels on our tails when they showed up."

Scott's expression lit with amusement. "Let me guess, they split your team up and dragged you all off into basements and substructures and such to lose the sentinels tracking you," he said dryly.

Across the desk, Cecilia gave him an odd look, but Logan could only chuckle at the description. What the Thieves Guild lacked in combat experience they more than made up for in savvy. Logan wasn't surprised that Mal Lotho had his thieves following New York's example, or that they'd known enough to identify X-Force and help them.

"You don't sound surprised," Cable growled.

Scott sat back. "I'm not."

"So who are they?"

Scott's eyebrows quirked. "I'm afraid I can't tell you that."

"_What? _Why not?" Logan could imagine the outrage on Cable's face. But, in making a formal treaty with the Guild, the X-Men had obligated themselves to obey the thieves' strict rules.

Scott slouched down in his chair and laced his fingers across his stomach. "Because that's the way this works," he answered firmly. "However, if you can guess who they are, I can confirm."

Cable seemed to consider that for a few seconds. "Can I trust them?" he finally asked.

Scott chewed on his lip. "The simple answer is yes," he said with a shrug. "They have their own priorities, which aren't exactly the same as ours, but they'll do as much for you as they can."

"An' what they can do is considerable," Logan added. Gambit had demonstrated that beyond any shadow of a doubt.

Cable muttered curses under his breath, then raised his voice. "I don't like this, Cyclops."

A smile ghosted across Scott's face. "I wasn't thrilled either. But, you have to take the help where you can get it."

"At what cost?"

Logan watched as Scott's expression closed in on itself. The X-Men had paid in blood—both real and symbolic—for the aid the Guild had given them.

Logan cleared his throat. "Price has already been paid," he told Cable solemnly. "Yer tradin' on the X-Men's credit here, so don't forget it."

Silence answered him. Then, "What have you gotten mixed up in?" Cable asked warily.

Scott's expression firmed. "We're taking OZT down," he told the other man, "and no one has done anything, to my knowledge, that they're not willing to live with."

Logan nodded to himself. That right there demonstrated how much Cyclops had changed more than anything else. Scott no longer took responsibility for the choices others made, or expected himself to be able shield them from the fallout of those choices. It demonstrated a level of trust for his team that Logan didn't think had been there before OZT.

Cable's snort said the other had come to a similar conclusion. "All right," he agreed, sounding unhappy. "I guess I'll have to take your word on that."

Scott nodded. "Good enough. Your new friends will be able to contact us, so stay in touch." He paused, his tone softening. "It's good to talk to you again, Nathan."

"And you, Scott." Cable paused. "Tell Jean I said hello."

"I will."

The brief personal moment evaporated as quickly as it had come and Cable turned his attention to Cecilia. "Doc, we got the power interface units you wanted. I'll ship them to you as soon as possible."

"Thanks, Nathan," she answered. "I'll let Allie know. She'll be thrilled to finally get that lab up and running."

"Glad we could help."

Logan listened as they wrapped up the conversation and then Cecilia hung up the phone. She gave Scott a curious stare as silence descended on the office.

Scott met her gaze, his expression diffident. "Is there anything we can do about Jubilee's functioning microcomputers?" he asked as if the intervening conversation had never taken place.

Cecilia took the hint. "Not that I would recommend," she answered in the same tone. "I just wanted to make sure you understood the situation."

Logan heard the sad echoes in her voice and his stomach sank. Despite everything she'd already been through, Jubilee still wasn't free of OZT. And she might never be if they couldn't find a way to shut down the microcomputers in her head.

#-#-#-#

Bobby tried to hide his nervousness as he led Scott into the massive cavern that housed the Maze. He kept one hand firmly clamped on the climbing gear slung over his shoulder to keep it from rattling. Behind him, Scott's footsteps echoed in the emptiness.

"You know, that is just a little bit freaky," Scott said when they were halfway across the floor of the Maze.

Bobby paused and turned to look at him. "What is?"

"You." Scott looked pointedly at Bobby's feet and then back up at his face. "You aren't making any noise when you walk."

The comment startled Bobby into a grin. He'd never imagined being able to freak Scott out in any way, shape or form. "Oh, it's the shoes mostly." He was dressed in his standard thief's gear. "The soles are made of an engineered resin polymer."

Scott raised one eyebrow, his expression challenging. "Not the training?"

Bobby shrugged. "That, too. Remy had a tendency to give me a few nasty bruises if he could hear me coming." He saw Scott's eyes narrow and explained, "If I was making enough noise for him to hear me coming, there was no way I could hear _him_."

Scott regarded him for a long moment. "So what you're saying is that if I had hit you, you would have worked harder at being an X-Man?" he asked.

Bobby stared at him in shock until he realized the corner of Scott's mouth was twitching ever so slightly. He recovered with a snort of amusement. "Actually… yeah. Probably." He spread his hands in the equivalent of a shrug. "Self-preservation is a great motivator."

Scott looked a little disappointed that he hadn't gotten more of a rise out of him. He resumed walking and Bobby had to pivot smartly to fall in beside the X-Men's leader.

"So what exactly am I doing here?" Scott glanced over at him. "Other than going rock climbing with you because Remy asked me to." His gaze rose from Bobby's face to the massive tangle of the Maze above them, and then went forward to where the native stone of the cavern rose in a curving, hundred-fifty foot wall, unevenly lit by floodlights mounted on the ceiling.

The nervousness Bobby had managed to forget came back in a rush. "He didn't explain?" When Scott shook his head, he rolled his eyes. "Great."

"What?"

Bobby sighed. "The path we take into the Baxter building requires some serious spelunking, among other things. If you really want to get in there—"

"I _need_ to get in there," Scott interrupted. "There's no way I'm going to commit the X-Men's lives to this launch until I've seen Reed's solutions for myself."

Bobby nodded in understanding. "And there's no way Remy is going to commit our lives to getting you inside until he's confident you have the skills to make it." Scott gave him an odd look at that and he shrugged. "Consider it a dry run. Eventually we're going to have to be able to get all of the X-Men inside Four Freedoms Plaza, so this is a good first step to figuring out what that's going to take."

Scott paused. "Wait, you're _evaluating_ me?" he asked, his expression faintly disbelieving.

Bobby had to laugh. "Yeah." He gave Scott a sardonic grin. "Welcome to Thieving 101."

Scott just shook his head. "No offense, but I'm not going to learn how to pick locks."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Bobby agreed easily.

Their steps carried them to the base of the cavern wall. Bobby tossed his gear down on the ground at his feet. "How much rock climbing have you done?" he asked with a glance at Scott.

Scott stood with his fists planted on his hips, staring up at the wall. "I did a lot of rappelling in college." He shrugged. "Not so much climbing."

"Any free climbing?"

"A little." A frown wrinkled his brow. "I always thought it was stupid to climb without safety gear. Why take the risk?"

Bobby couldn't help a smile. That sounded like Scott.

"Well, in this case we can't afford to use the gear because it's just too noisy," Bobby explained. "OZT's surveillance system down there is both motion and audio activated."

Scott's expression lightened. "Makes sense."

Bobby went on. "For now we'll use the safety gear—" He paused, bemused by the position he found himself in. "Or you will, anyway. I should be able to climb this in my sleep."

Scott's only response was a snort. They spent the next few minutes sorting the gear and equipping the X-Men's field leader, then both men started up the wall. For a while there was no sound between them except the scrape of stone and the metal rattle of Scott's equipment. Bobby stayed a bit below and to the other man's right for the most part, watching his progress, but every so often he moved ahead to better see how Scott was choosing his hand holds.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think I'd discovered Spiderman's real identity," Scott commented sourly as he watched Bobby maneuver around him. He sounded like he was beginning to tire.

Bobby glanced down. They'd climbed nearly eighty feet. Not bad for someone who didn't do this kind of thing on a regular basis. Remy, of course, didn't consider anything less than a hundred feet—and the sheerer the better—as sufficient for an exercise.

He smiled a bit at the implied compliment. "A lot of it has to do with always keeping your weight balanced properly. I'm using less energy than you are because I'm not constantly having to compensate for my center of gravity being off."

The analysis earned him a half-hearted dirty look. Bobby lowered himself until he was even with Scott. Reaching over, he pressed lightly on a point between the other man's shoulder blades, nudging him into a better position.

Scott's expression flickered in surprise as he registered the change. "Okay, point taken," he said after a moment.

"Ready to head down?" Bobby asked.

The muscles tightened across Scott's shoulders. "I assume we're taking the long way."

Bobby grinned at the sarcastic bite in his words. "Yep. We can work on that balance on the way down."

Rolling his eyes, Scott complied with Bobby's occasional input. They slowly descended, Scott's breathing growing more labored as they progressed. Bobby was beginning to feel the burn in his muscles as well, but it was something he was used to working through so he ignored it. He almost asked Scott if he wanted to stop and rest, but the grim set to the other man's mouth decided him against it. The last thing he wanted was for Scott to think he was patronizing him.

A short time later Scott cleared his throat, breaking the silence that had fallen between them. "I have a question for you."

"Okay," Bobby agreed as he ran his fingers along the stone, searching for a new hand hold.

"What really happened between you and Michael Tyre?"

Bobby froze for a moment in surprise at the question. Then, "What do you want to know, exactly?" he responded.

Scott grunted at the effort of shifting to a new position. "He was the Guildmaster before Remy, right?"

"Yes."

"And Remy killed him to keep him from going after you for having an affair with his wife."

Bobby winced at the description. "Not exactly," he qualified as he edged himself down another step. "Though I can see how it would look like that from the outside."

"So what was it?"

Bobby breathed a long sigh. "A mess." He reached for a new foothold, his tone firming. "And there was no affair." He didn't look at Scott. "Just so we're clear."

Scott muttered a curse as his foot slipped, sending a cascade of stone fragments pattering down. He recovered quickly and glanced over at Bobby. "You married Diedre less than four months later. What was I supposed to think?"

Bobby shrugged. He knew his actions hadn't been entirely defensible. "You never met Michael."

"Was he as nasty as Adrian?"

Bobby nearly laughed. "Oh no," he answered. At Scott's odd look he added, "He was much, much worse."

"You're kidding."

"I'm not." Bobby glanced down, gauging the remaining distance. He was only fifteen feet off the ground, so he bent his knees and threw himself backward, off the wall. He did a neat back flip, landing in a crouch on the stone floor.

Scott rappelled to the ground a few moments later, the whir of his line playing out sounding inordinately loud in the empty cavern.

"That was pretty," Scott said in a studiously neutral tone as he unhooked his line.

"Thanks." Bobby rose to his feet. "Lots of practice, you know." He bent over, stretching out the tension in his leg muscles. "Listen," he said as he straightened. "About Michael…"

Scott looked at him expectantly, and Bobby had to pause for a moment to collect his thoughts.

"Have you heard of the Guild's no powers rule?" he finally asked.

Scott looked surprised at the sudden change in direction, but he nodded. "Thieves aren't supposed to use their mutant powers so the authorities will never suspect the existence of a group of mutants this size." He began to wind the nylon climbing rope around his arm. "I can't say I blame them."

Bobby nodded. "Right. But as you can imagine, not everyone believes we should be hiding our powers."

Scott's expression turned thoughtful. "Michael was one of those?"

He nodded again. "Yeah. Plus, he was an alpha mutant, not to mention Guildmaster of one of the most powerful Guilds around. He was positioning New York to go public, I guess you'd say. Full powers. Remy thinks the Kingpin would have been his first target, but who knows what would have happened after that."

Scott's eyebrows hiked upward in alarm, but he didn't interrupt.

Bobby ran a hand through his hair, his stomach clenching. Thinking about Michael brought back all of the emotions from those days, undimmed by the passage of time.

"Remy was the only person standing in his way," he explained. "The only one who _could. _ But he knew how dangerous Michael was." Bobby shook his head at the memories. "And because of me, instead of letting Michael destroy himself Remy ended up having to confront him." The pain in his gut intensified. "He knew Michael could probably kill him but he did it anyway, just so I would have the chance to save Diedre."

Scott's gaze narrowed. "_Save_ her? That's quite the euphemism. She could have just divorced him," he said with a faintly disapproving frown and Bobby was startled to realize just how little the X-Men knew about what had happened. It had been the first time he'd ever flatly refused to tell anyone anything, and he hadn't really registered just how much of the story he'd kept from them.

He met his team leader's eyes. "I was being literal, Scott. Michael stabbed her in the heart rather than let her walk away." That moment, as Diedre went limp in his arm and her scarlet blood poured out of her still burned in his memory. "I turned the air around us to liquid—I was trying to kill him—" He shrugged. "It just wasn't enough. If Remy hadn't shown up then, Diedre would have died for certain."

Scott regarded him thoughtfully for a long moment. "Why didn't you ever tell us any of this?" he finally asked, his gaze no longer disapproving but still filled with reproach. "I understand why it would have had to have been an edited version, but…"

Bobby could only shrug. "At the time it hurt too much." He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. "And I didn't really know what I could or couldn't say. I'd had my mark for less than a week, Remy was still in critical condition, and I was completely freaked because the Professor was already sending me out on intelligence gathering jobs in Remy's place." He smiled at Scott's startled stare. "So I decided it was safest not to say anything at all."

Scott seemed to accept that. Together they gathered up the climbing gear and turned to head back across the cavern.

"So how did I do?" Scott asked after they'd gone a short ways, with a wave toward the harness and rope slung over his shoulder. His voice held a faint sardonic note.

Bobby couldn't help his grin. "Well, we've got some work to do…" he began and nearly burst out laughing at the expression that crossed Scott's face. "But, all in all, I think you'd have made a pretty good thief."

Scott snorted sourly. "I'll take that as a compliment, I guess."

#-#-#-#

"When is the next shipment coming in?" Remy asked. He shifted his weight where he leaned against the corner of his desk, wincing at the pain in his leg. Snow was expected across the area that evening—the first winter storm of the season.

Around the corner of the desk from him, Artur shuffled his notes. "Thursday," he said after a moment.

Remy expanded his gaze to include Carson, who stood to Artur's right. "Are we set to intercept the couriers?"

"Yes, Guildmaster," Carson answered. "But our most recent intelligence suggests they'll probably be escorted by a significant armed force this time." He crossed his arms. "I think we need to consider bringing the X-Men in, in case the snatch doesn't go cleanly."

Remy looked over at him in surprise and on the far side of the desk all conversation abruptly died. Nearly half of the X-Men were in his office at the moment, clustered in two distinct but overlapping groups that occupied the other end of the desk. Rogue and Bishop, along with Marcus Black, had been put in charge of planning another fuel depot run while Scott, Logan, Storm and Mystique worked on figuring out how they were going to take down Bastion's space station with input from Chess and another senior thief.

In the aftermath of Adrian's death, Remy had been obliged to allow Carson as much involvement with the war on the Cartel as he wanted. But, to his surprise, Carson had proved relatively easy to work with. He didn't have Adrian's ambition and his thirst for revenge apparently outweighed his dislike of the Guildmaster by several orders of magnitude.

"We bein' invited to another party?" Logan asked after a moment.

Remy nodded. "The Colombians are starting to arm up."

Rogue brushed her hair away from her face with a light chuckle. "Sugah, mah dance card's gettin' full."

Scott cocked his head, the pen he'd been using as a pointer tapping a rapid tattoo against the edge of the desk. "We're all pulling double and triple duty, Rogue." He looked over at Remy. "And we're still pretty short on manpower." Mystique and Sam were both still out with injuries, though Mystique had recovered to the point that she was now able to walk with the help of a cane. "How big an operation are we talking about?"

"They're likely to have as many as a dozen or fifteen armed men with them."

"Local or imported?" Logan wanted to know.

"Mostly local," Carson answered. "Their main distributor is Los Ochos, and that's who they're tapping for help."

"Is that a gang?" Scott asked.

Most of the thieves in the room nodded, and Remy could imagine their expressions.

Scott shrugged. "Sorry, I don't keep track of all the New York gangs," he said dryly. He turned to Logan. "Can I hand this off to you?"

Logan shrugged. "Sure thing, Cyke."

"Okay." Scott breathed a sigh. "Tap whoever you need, I guess. Just try to keep it small."

The phone rang then and Remy turned away from the conversation. He picked up the handset. "LeBeau."

"Guildmaster, there's a call for you from New Orleans." He recognized the voice as one of the techs who worked in the communications center. "It's your father."

Curious and a little apprehensive, Remy sank into his chair. "Put him through."

"Salut, mon pere," he said more cheerfully than he felt when his father's voice came on the line.

"Hello, Remy." His father sounded grim and Remy's gut instinctively tightened. "How are y', son?"

"Can't complain," Remy answered. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his ankles.

"And Rogue?"

Remy glanced over at his wife. "She's fine." Rogue looked up at the reference, her heat signature lighting with interest though she didn't say anything. After a minute she went back to her conversation with Bishop and Logan.

"Dat's good." Jean Luc's voice held a faint warm note.

Remy bit his lip. His stomach had clenched into a hard knot. "Y' didn't call jus' t' ask about m' family."

There was a short moment of silence in which Remy could imagine his father shaking his head. "Non." Jean Luc sighed. "I have… news."

Remy had to resist the urge to hang up right then. Whatever it was, he was dreadfully certain he didn't want to hear it.

"It obviously ain' good news, so y' might as well jus' get it over wit'," he finally snapped, more sharply than he intended.

Around the room, signatures spiked and the conversation level dropped dramatically. Frustrated at his own lack of self-control, Remy spun his chair around to face the wall. He ran a hand through his hair and waited for what his father had to say.

"Y' gon' be gettin' a call," Jean Luc told him, his tone filled with reluctance.

"From who?"

Jean Luc sighed. "Honor demands dat Marius do it himself."

Remy sat forward abruptly. "Marius _Boudreaux_?"

"Remy, Belladonna's dead." The words hit with the force of bullets, each one tearing a distinct hole in him.

For a minute, Remy simply couldn't breathe. It didn't seem possible.

"How?" he finally croaked. He was dimly aware of the general hubbub of his office stuttering to a halt behind him.

"Bastion shot her," his father answered. If possible, his tone grew even grimmer. "Remy, listen t' me. Word is dat Belladonna refused a contract on you, an' dat's why Bastion killed her."

Remy processed the words before he was ready to, his mind racing well ahead of his heart. He didn't want to believe it, but he also couldn't help but understand what the information meant for all of them. Cold all over, he spun back around to face the room. Hitting the speaker button on the phone's base, he dropped the handset in its cradle.

"Say dat again." He laced his fingers together on the desktop, squeezing them so tightly the joints ached. _Belladonna's dead. Dead, dead, dead. _ The word pounded through his brain in time with his heartbeat.

Jean Luc sighed, his voice full of forced patience. "Belladonna refused a contract on y', son, an 'Bastion shot her for it."

Rogue's gasp punctuated the silence following that pronouncement. Her heat signature flared brilliantly and was echoed with varying intensity by the others in the room.

Scott stared at Remy, his face a mottled array of colors Remy had no names for. "Bastion tried to put an assassination contract out on you?"

Remy stared at the desktop. "I told y' one o' de risks inherent in takin' Trish an' her crew inside dat plant was somebody figurin' out who de X-Man Gambit really is."

"So who picked up the contract?" Mystique wanted to know. She leaned over the desk, her weight braced on her hands.

"Unknown, madam," Jean Luc answered. "Normally de Assassin's Guild would, but in dis situation…" Remy could imagine his shrug.

Artur cleared his throat. "The Assassins will have to send a delegation to New York. Protocol demands it." He glanced first at Chess and then Remy. "But if there's a chance they've picked up the contract, we can't risk letting them anywhere near the Guildmaster."

Chess cocked his head to the side, his stance thoughtful. "Even if they come under a flag of truce… I agree, we can't risk it."

"Then you will give the Assassins grave insult." Jean Luc's voice carried a heavy warning note.

Remy shook his head. "Dat's de last t'ing we need right now." New York was already stretched thin between supporting operations against OZT and the Bogota Cartel. He wasn't certain they had the resources to take on anything else.

"Despite his shortcomings, Marius is an honorable man," Jean Luc told them. "He will respect a flag of truce."

"And will every assassin under his authority?" Chess asked, his tone sharp.

Remy tipped his head back and closed his eyes. "Dey will if Marius comes in person," he answered tiredly. Though seeing Marius in person fell pretty high on the list of activities he never wanted to repeat if he could help it. Especially now.

Jean Luc's tone lightened. "Oui, I t'ink he'll understand dat. I'll talk wit' him."

Remy forced himself to open his eyes. "Bien," he agreed.

His father continued, "In de interest o' not rubbin' salt in de wound, though, I would suggest dat Rogue make herself scarce while he's there."

Across the desk, Rogue's signature swirled angrily.

Remy's temper flared at the suggestion. "I ain' gon' hide her in a corner because it's inconvenient t' y' peace accord," he snapped. Loving Rogue was one of the only things in his life that he'd never backed down from or betrayed—one of a very precious few for which he had no regrets. He would not surrender that.

"Regardless o' how t'ings have turned out, y' still important t' de peace process here, Remy," Jean Luc retorted, stern disapproval in his tone. "Don't forget that."

Remy levered himself to his feet, propelled by a deep, cold rage. "I have done _everyt'ing_ de Guild has ever asked o' me in de name of _peace_." He nearly spat the word. He had bled and killed and walked away from the only place he'd ever called home, all for the sake of their peace.

Silence answered him, filled with static and the tinny echo of the open phone line. Around him, the thieves' signatures rippled with alarm and palpable sense of dismay.

"Enough," Jean Luc finally said. "I'll talk t' Marius."

Remy gathered the tattered shreds of his composure. "Tell him, if he comes under a flag of truce, he has m' personal guarantee o' safety on Guild territory," he managed in a nearly normal voice.

There was another long pause.

"Very well," Jean Luc said with a sigh. "Au revoir, Remy." The phone went dead with a click.

Remy slammed his palm down on the desktop as all of the emotions he'd been trying to contain boiled up from his gut, tasting of bile. He stepped from behind the desk and walked toward the sitting area, hands on hips, as he fought to shove them back down.

A few seconds later he felt Rogue's hands on his back. He dragged her into a hug, burying his face in her hair and letting the smell of her fill his lungs and soothe his heart. 

"Ah'm so sorry about Belle," she murmured.

Remy just closed his eyes and held her tighter.


	50. Chapter 50

Chapter 50

Rogue tried to summon a smile for Jean when the other woman opened the door. She didn't think she succeeded very well, and Jean's expression turned sympathetic.

"Come on in, Rogue," she said as she stepped back. She had one of the Black's twins tucked into the crook of her arm. Behind her, Diedre and Andrea sat at the Drakes' little table whose surface was taken up with coffee mugs, assorted plates and half-eaten muffins, and a jumbled pile of plastic blocks in friendly rainbow hues. Andrea held her other son in her arms and Clarissa sat in Diedre's lap, a block gripped in either hand. The two-year-old was banging them together with great gusto and grinning.

Rogue stepped inside, the weight on her heart easing a little as she took in the scene. The other women greeted her warmly.

"We saved you a muffin," Andrea said with bright smile. She pointed to the platter at the center of the table, where one untouched muffin remained.

Rogue sank into an empty chair with a deep sigh. "Thanks, sugah."

"You look tired," Jean commented as she returned to her seat. She shifted the baby in her arms to avoid her rounded belly.

"Here, let me get you some coffee." Diedre started to move Clarissa out of her lap, but Rogue quickly held up a hand to forestall her.

"Don't get up, sugah. Ah'm the only one here who's not holdin' a child. Ah can get mah own." She pushed herself to her feet and wandered toward the sideboard where the coffeemaker sat. She could feel the other women's gazes on her back.

Jean cleared her throat. "How are you holding up, Rogue?"

Rogue shrugged as she poured coffee into her mug. "Okay, ah guess." All of the things she'd been trying not to think about surged forward, tightening her throat and making her eyes burn.

"Bobby says Remy's taking it pretty hard," Diedre offered from behind her.

Rogue nodded. "Yeah." She swallowed painfully. "He's said about four words ta me since Tuesday." As soon as the words were out of her mouth she realized how it sounded and qualified, "He's not talkin' ta anybody right now if he doesn't have to."

Taking a deep, bracing breath she picked up her mug and turned back toward the table.

"You've got to give him time to grieve," Jean said.

Rogue set her coffee down on the table and sank into her chair. "Ah know." Resting her elbows on the table, she combed her hair away from her face. "Ah just—" She laid her forehead in her hands and covered her eyes with her palms as if she could somehow push back the tears that wanted to form. "He's shut me out again an' ah can't stand it."

"I'm sure he's not trying to shut you out," Jean said.

Rogue scrubbed at her eyes. "No, he's just doin' an impressive wounded bear imitation."

"Can you blame him?"

Rogue looked up into Jean's clear gaze and, with a little sniff, shook her head. Remy had suffered more loss than most. She couldn't blame him for not being able to deal with it very well. But that didn't lessen the sense of rejection.

Jean watched her evaluatingly. "You're angry," she said after a moment.

Rogue sat back in her chair and wrapped her arms around herself. She really hated Jean's tendency to psychoanalyze, especially since she was right a lot more often than she was wrong.

Rogue bit her lip. "Ah don't even know where to start."

Jean cocked her head. "Who are you angry at? Remy or Belladonna?"

"Both," she answered before she could stop herself.

"Why?"

Rogue shook her head. "Ah don't know." She tipped her head back to stare at the stone ceiling as if she might find the answers there. "Ah've got no right ta resent either of them foh lovin' each other once upon a time."

"It's not that simple, Rogue." Jean's voice was filled with compassion. "Believe me, I know how hard it is to be the second wife."

Rogue dropped her gaze to the other woman's in surprise at the echoes of old pain and bitterness in her tone.

Jean met her gaze unflinchingly. "At least Belladonna wasn't a clone created by Sinister for the sole purpose of having your husband's baby, right?" she asked.

Diedre and Andrea both gaped at Jean. Rogue summoned a strained smile for their reactions. _Bizarre_ didn't begin to describe the lives of the X-Men.

"If that's your way of tellin' me it could be worse, sugah, I get the point," she said after a moment.

Jean's expression lightened minutely. "Just give Remy some time."

Rogue nodded, and the conversation turned to more mundane topics—children, the school and a host of everyday Guild issues. But, eventually, as Rogue knew they would, they came around to the upcoming meeting with Marius Boudreaux and her gut clenched.

She sat forward in her chair and wrapped her hands around her coffee mug. "Ah'm really not lookin' forward ta this meetin' with the Assassins," she admitted. When she'd gone to New Orleans with Remy a couple of years earlier, the Assassins had all looked at her like she was something they'd scrape off their shoes.

Rogue gripped her mug until her knuckles turned white. They hadn't been far off. Her stomach twisted at the memories. She wasn't very proud of how she'd acted toward Belle, particularly in stealing the other woman's memories of her relationship with Remy. At the time Rogue had justified it by telling herself it was as close as she would ever get to making love to him. Now, though, that thought and the faint shreds of memory she still retained from Belladonna's mind simply made her feel ill.

"Do you have any idea what the chances are that the Assassins might try to pull something?" Jean asked. Her expression sharpened. "Even if they haven't taken up the contract on Remy, plain old revenge is still a possibility."

Andrea shook her head. "Not while they're here under a flag of truce. They wouldn't dare."

Jean rubbed her stomach absently. "Well, Scott will be glad to hear that. He's been fretting about Remy's safety."

Rogue found herself smiling unexpectedly at the image her words conjured. "That man's going ta make an excellent grandmother someday," she told Jean.

The others laughed and the atmosphere in the room lightened. Diedre began stacking the blocks on the table in front of Clarissa, which the little girl immediately knocked over with a squeal of delight.

Grateful for the distraction, Rogue set about building successively taller structures for Clarissa to knock down. Diedre watched in tolerant amusement as the crashes got more spectacular and a larger percentage of the block skittered off onto the floor with each new demolition.

"Okay, girls, enough seriousness," Andrea declared suddenly. "We need a new topic. Preferably something frivolous and gossip-worthy."

"Hear, hear," Jean agreed, raising her coffee cup.

The women looked at each other expectantly.

To everyone's surprise, Diedre was the one to break the silence. She pointed at Andrea. "Did you know your sister has a crush on Sam Guthrie?"

Andrea's eyebrows arched sharply. "No, really?"

#-#-#-#

Gris-Gris sat on a small marble bench inside a dusty mausoleum near the heart of New Orleans. The cool stone wall at his back gave him what he knew to be a false sense of security, but he was willing to enjoy the feeling while it lasted.

He stared at the tomb in front of him without seeing it, and thought of Belladonna. It still seemed so strange that he would never hear her voice again. The future of the guild—their greatest hope for real leadership, strong leadership—gone because of Bastion.

A snarl curled his lip. Because of LeBeau.

The man Gris-Gris had been waiting for stepped inside the dim confines of the mausoleum and the assassin rose to his feet.

He inclined his head respectfully. "Hezekiah."

The man who had been orchestrating Belladonna's rise to power within the guild nodded in acknowledgement. "Bonsoir, Gris-Gris. I assume everyt'ing is taken care of?"

Gris-Gris nodded. "We fly t' New York tomorrow morning."

Hezekiah rolled his shoulders, traces of remorse on his broad face. "Did y' try talkin' t' Marius again?"

Gris-Gris sighed. "Oui. He won' budge." Disappointment made the words taste like ash. It had been obvious for a while, but the truth could no longer be avoided. Marius Boudreaux had lost his edge. They had a clear shot at LeBeau and a contract to fulfill, but Marius remained adamant that truce with the thieves had to be honored no matter what. He seemed to have forgotten that peace with the thieves was merely a tool—something to be discarded at an appropriate time—rather than an end in itself.

"Den we've no choice." Hezekiah crossed his arms over his chest.

Gris-Gris just nodded. OZT's power suppression field gave them an advantage over the thieves they would be fools not to use. And with Remy LeBeau dead, the Guildmaster of New Orleans would not be able to count on any meaningful support from the New York Thieves Guild. Not when that chapter already had so many other troubles to deal with.

Not that the transition of power would be an easy one. Belladonna had been their one hope for a bloodless succession. Without her clear leadership, the battle for Marius's throne would drag on for months, if not years.

Still, it had to be done.

Hezekiah watched him with dark, thoughtful eyes. "Are y' sure you're ready f' dis, Gris-Gris?" he asked after a moment.

The assassin unconsciously straightened his shoulders. Ready to die, Hezekiah meant. LeBeau was not a man to be underestimated. Gris-Gris didn't doubt his ability to get to the thief, but his chances of getting away afterward would be minimal.

"Oui," he assured the other man. LeBeau had been Belladonna's one true weakness. Perhaps by completing the contract she so foolishly refused, he could finally set her free from the thief's thrall.

#-#-#-#

After a fairly intense search effort, Rogue finally found her husband in their quarters, seated on the floor of the closet with a small shoe box open in front of him and a handful of items scattered on the carpet nearby.

Her first thought was that she really should have known better than to believe the group of people—both Guild and X-Men—out in the office who swore up and down that Remy hadn't passed through since they'd been there. Not because any of them would have lied to her, but because the man was extremely good at avoiding notice when he wanted to. She'd only come back to their apartment herself because she'd run out of time and needed to change her clothes.

Her second thought was one of relief for the fact that he was dressed in his tuxedo, though his tie hung loose around his neck and his jacket still waited on a nearby hanger. The Assassins were expected within the hour and people had begun to panic when they'd discovered the Guildmaster was nowhere to be found.

Her third thought, however, quickly demolished that sense of relief because she realized that the box he was sorting through held mementos, some of which she recognized from Belladonna's stolen memories. Rogue's stomach twisted savagely at the thought. She wasn't sure which was worse—the fact that he still kept these reminders of a relationship that had for all intents and purposes ended more than a decade earlier, or that she was insecure enough about her own relationship that their existence felt like a kind of betrayal.

She cleared her throat. "Everybody's lookin' for ya, sugah."

He didn't look up. A cheap, gold-colored chain with a half-heart strung on it—the kind of silly trinket teenagers won at an arcade or got from a vending machine—spilled through his fingers. He let it tumble from one hand into the cupped palm of the other, repeating the motion over and over.

"I got tired o' Cyke an' Chess lecturin' me about m' safety," he said after a moment, his voice inflectionless. "I grew up 'round de Assassins. I t'ink I know better dan they do what t' expect."

Rogue carefully stepped past him, grateful that the walk-in closet was square and gave her plenty of room to maneuver.

"They're just worried," she said as she looked over the collection of gowns she'd acquired since becoming Guildmistress. Most were far too flashy, designed to draw attention to her in her role as a symbol of the Guild's wealth and prestige. Tonight she needed something different.

The gray gown drew her gaze and she nodded subconsciously. It was one of the most flattering dresses she owned, as much for its simplicity as its color. The dove gray highlighted her pale skin and the contrasting richness of her hair. She could tone her look down by wearing pearls instead of gems, without sacrificing any of the elegance with which she was supposed to represent her Guild.

Remy's hands stilled. "De Assassins are walkin' into a Guild stronghold. Marius'd have t' have a death wish t' try anyt'ing tonight."

"Okay, sugah," she agreed. Personally, she was at least as worried as Scott and Chess but there obviously wasn't any point in arguing with him about it. She knew him well enough to recognize when he'd dug his heels in.

She kept her back to him as she undressed, afraid that if she looked she would find him still engrossed in his memories of Belladonna and indifferent to her presence. Her jeans and sweater went into the clothes hamper. She combed her fingers through her hair, bundling the mass of it up at the nape of her neck as she considered her bra and panties.

Neither would do, she decided after a moment and turned to go to the drawers built into the far wall, only to find Remy standing silently behind her. She uttered a squawk of pure surprise and recoiled so fast she might have fallen except for the strong hands that caught her waist.

"Easy, chere." Though his face remained still, his voice held a warm note.

"Remy, ya scared me half ta death!" she scolded, though only half-seriously, and wrapped her hands around his forearms to steady herself. If it weren't for the chain she could feel flapping lightly against her hip, she would have used the opportunity to close the distance between them. Instead, she reached down to catch the dangling half-heart emblem, holding it in her palm as she studied it.

"Did Belle give this to ya?" she finally asked.

Expressions chased across his face before he nodded.

"How old were ya?"

He shrugged. "Sixteen."

Rogue nibbled her lip, trying to imagine him that young and found that she couldn't.

He took the heart from her, his thumb brushing across its surface. "I don' even know why I still have it, out of everyt'ing." He looked away, out over the top of her head. "Stupid Mardi Gras souvenir."

"What happened to ya weddin' ring?" The question popped out of her mouth before she could fully consider it.

He snorted, the sound pained. "Threw dat in Lake Ponchartrain on m' way out o' town."

Rogue swayed instinctively toward him. She recognized the kind of bitterness it would take to do something like that and it made her heart ache.

"Ah'm sorry," was all she could think of to say.

Remy shook his head, his gaze distant. "Was a long time ago, chere."

"Doesn't mean it's stopped hurtin'." Cautiously she reached up to encircle his neck with her arms and was reassured when he pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his face in her shoulder.

He breathed a long sigh. "Belle deserved better than t' die f' de likes o' me."

Rogue's insides went cold at his words. It wasn't just the guilt she heard in his voice, though they both knew Belladonna's fate had been sealed the moment she stepped aboard Bastion's space station. Even if the assassin had accepted the contract, it would only have led to one of them killing the other and Rogue's money would have been on Remy in that case despite how much it would have torn him up to do it.

No, it was almost a sense of self-loathing she heard, as if he'd solemnly weighed himself as a person and come to the conclusion that he possessed no inherent worth. The thought made her angry.

She pulled back enough to stare up at him. "Belle died because Bastion killed her," she told him flatly. "It wasn't yoh fault."

She watched as his face closed in on itself, sealing his thoughts away behind an emotionless façade. He stepped back, releasing his hold on her.

"Get dressed, chere. We've got an appointment t' keep." He knelt and began collecting the scattered pieces of his life with Belladonna, returning them to their box. The half-heart on its chain went in first, hitting the cardboard with a small, hollow thud.

Rogue blinked furiously against the threat of tears and forced herself to breathe. She wanted to scream at him for shutting her out yet again—for hoarding his pain and denying her the chance to help him carry it.

Trembling, she finished changing into the gray gown. Her thoughts ran in frustrated circles, culminating in an exclamation of disgust when she found herself unable to contort quite far enough to pull the zipper in the back all the way up to its stop.

She froze at the light touch of her husband's fingers on her spine. Her arms fell limply to her sides as he tugged the zipper into place. She could feel his solid presence behind her, so close she could feel the warmth emanating from his body. He traced the edge of her gown, fingers trailing softly across the skin of her back, and then followed the line of her straps upward. Warm hands cupped her shoulders as he bent to press a kiss into the curve of her neck.

"I'm sorry, Anna."

Rogue's breath exploded out of her in a near-sob. Remy wrapped both arms around her from behind in a tight hug and she felt his lips in her hair. She clutched his arms, returning the hug. Her eyes burned, and this time she couldn't prevent the pair of tears that escaped to wet her cheeks.

After a minute in that reassuring embrace, though, she straightened with a little sniff. "Why didn't ya ever go back for her? For Belle, ah mean." She didn't have the courage to turn to face him, but it was something she'd wondered about ever since learned of Belladonna's existence. "Once ya earned yoh master's mark they couldn't have kept ya out o' New Orleans."

"I thought about it," he admitted after a minute. "Spent a couple o' years wonderin' if it would be possible t' pick up again… start over… whatever."

Nausea squirmed in Rogue's gut. "So why didn't ya?"

"Honestly?"

She squeezed her eyes shut. "Yeah."

He was silent for a long moment and she could almost hear his shrug. "I met you."

#-#-#-#

Remy would rather have been anywhere but where he was, standing in the middle of the Club waiting for Marius Boudreaux to arrive. A hospital. Antarctica. Federal prison. _Anywhere_.

The last time he'd faced Marius Boudreaux over the death of one of the assassin's children, it had shattered his entire world. And as much as common sense told him that this situation was different, it was hard not to fear the same happening again.

He glanced over at Rogue, who waited silently beside him. This time he had even more to lose. The thought was enough to make his throat go dry.

Around him the thieves waited, their tension coiling through the room like an invisible current. None of them were armed, save for those who stood guard at the front door and the door leading down to the Guild complex. Remy didn't want anybody's jitters sparking a bloodbath.

The Club had been closed to the public for the evening and its interior rearranged into something fitting for a formal reception. Soft music played in the background and several tables laid out resplendently with an assortment of hors d'oeuvres took up the far end of the room.

"Are ya sure I should be here, sugah?" Rogue asked in an undertone. "If it's gonna make things harder…"

Remy reached over to squeeze her hand. "Non, chere."

"Okay." She sounded doubtful, but her body language demonstrated a kind of stoic resolve.

Across the room, the door leading from the street-access imaging area opened and a New York thief stepped through, followed by Marius Boudreaux and four of his assassins. Remy recognized all but one of the men with Marius. They were all seasoned professionals—dangerous men—but he knew them to be well-disciplined as well.

Marius gave nothing away with his body language as he walked toward Remy, but his temperature profile flickered under the influence of strong emotions. He came to a precise stop at an appropriately non-threatening distance, the flux of his signature intensifying.

Remy drew himself up. "Under flag of truce, de New York Thieves Guild welcomes you, Marius Boudreaux, an' the representatives of de New Orleans Assassins Guild."

Marius turned his head a fraction, taking in Rogue's presence, and then returned his attention to Remy. "Under flag of truce, we accept New York's hospitality." His voice was stiff, but underneath the forced calm Remy heard the raw echoes of his grief.

It struck Remy then that this was Belladonna's _father_—his own father-in-law for more than ten years—and the person Belle had loved most in the world.

He was also the man who had tortured Remy on his eighteenth birthday, whose angry voice still mixed in his dreams with the hiss of hot metal meeting skin, with pain, and the awful smell of burning flesh.

While he was still trying to resolve that dichotomy in his own mind, Marius went on, "I bring sad news from New Orleans." His heat signature spiked. "Belladonna Boudreaux, your wife—" His voice caught. "—my daughter—is dead."

Remy wasn't ready to hear the words again. He wasn't ready for the way his heart pinched at the thought of Belle's laughter silenced forever. He looked away for a moment, needing the time to gain control of his reaction.

Finally, he looked back at Marius. "Then a light has gone out in the world," he told the other man. The ritual response echoed hollowly in his ears, far too trite to encompass any of what he was feeling.

Purely on instinct Remy held out his hand to Marius. Regardless of what had gone between them in the past, there was no one else who could truly understand how terrible Belle's death was and the gaping hole she left behind.

The entire room held its collective breath as Marius looked down at his hand and then back up into Remy's face. Then, slowly, the leader of the Assassins reached out to grasp Remy's forearm.

Marius leaned forward until they were barely an inch apart, his grip tightening painfully. "Tante Mattie warned me t' have not'ing to do wit' _le diable blanc_," he hissed, his voice pitched low and trembling with suppressed rage. "I ignored her, an' look what it's gotten me. You're a curse, LeBeau. Everyt'ing y' touch comes t' ruin."

Remy recoiled in horror and Marius let him go. The guild leader of the Assassins calmly folded his hands in front of him, his body language composed. Remy fought to copy him. He could not afford to let the assassin see how deep his words had cut. Anger stirred deep inside him, mixed with the sinking knowledge that Marius was right.

Remy shoved those feelings down deep into his gut, shutting them away behind the iron wall of his will. He couldn't afford them. Not now.

He stepped back and gestured toward the tables on the far side of the room.

"You've come a long way t' deliver such sad news, an' y' must be tired." From somewhere he summoned a hollow smile. He had no choice but to play the gracious host. "Please, be welcome and accept our hospitality."

Marius nodded in acknowledgment and, with his assassins in tow, headed toward the far side of the room. Remy breathed a silent, shaky sigh as he watched their retreat.

"What did he say to you?" Rogue demanded quietly as she stepped up to his elbow. Her heat signature rippled with angry colors.

Remy shook his head. "Not'ing I haven' heard before." He didn't look at her.

"Remy—"

"Not now, chere." He kept his attention focused on the group of Assassins, who had begun helping themselves to the food laid out for them. In accordance with tradition they served themselves first and the thieves followed. A stiff, uncomfortable distance separated the two groups and he knew it wouldn't take much to turn that gap into a battle line.

He reached over to take Rogue's hand. "I'd better go talk t' some people," he told her. "C'mon."

Rogue silently allowed herself to be led across the room, but he could tell from the colors making up her form that she wasn't happy.

Remy made his way toward the tallest of the four men Marius had brought with him. Theo Benoit was a skinny reed of a man. Standing beside Gris-Gris's solid frame, he looked like a stick figure. When they'd been kids, the joke had been that Theo was the only one who could make Remy look fat. He'd been one of Belle's best friends, as well as one of those who'd conspired with her to sneak a certain thief into and out of assassin territory.

"Bonsoir, Theo," he greeted the other man with genuine warmth then acknowledged his companion more reservedly. "Gris-Gris."

Both assassins turned to face him. Theo extended his hand.

"Remy. It's been a long time." Remy could hear the smile in his voice.

He took the proffered hand. "'M sorry it couldn' be under better circumstances." Around them, the thieves and assassins took note of the friendly conversation and the tension level in the room stepped down a notch.

Theo shrugged, his heat signature flickering with amusement. "I understand. Y' been too busy movin' up in de world."

Remy snorted at that and Theo turned to Rogue. "Are y' gon' introduce me t' de belle femme?" he asked. He scooped up Rogue's hand and bent down to kiss it.

Beside Theo, Gris-Gris made a small noise of disgust, which Remy ignored. Gris-Gris had always resented his relationship with Belladonna and had never been shy about showing it.

"Ben oui," Remy agreed. "Theo Benoit, dis is m' wife, Anna. Anna, Theo." He gestured to each in turn.

"Ah'm pleased ta meet ya," Rogue said, managing to sound genuine and warm.

Gris-Gris's core temperature spiked angrily. "Y' got a lot o' nerve, LeBeau." He looked pointedly at Rogue.

Her signature flared in response and Remy squeezed her hand in silent warning.

"An' you, apparently, still don' have any," he told Gris-Gris. He cocked his head, considering. "Y' never did tell Belle how y' felt about her, did y'?" The last time he'd been to New Orleans it had been obvious the assassin had strong feelings for her. Remy didn't know if Belle had been oblivious or if she'd simply been waiting for Gris-Gris to step up and say something.

Gris-Gris took a step forward, his signature flaring bright with fury, and Remy chalked himself up a point. Theo held out a restraining hand toward the other Assassin and shook his head.

"I really hope y' not trying t' provoke us into givin' y' an excuse f' murder," he told Remy. His tone was light, almost joking, but his stance had turned wary.

Remy winced at the rebuke and relented. He knew he was being petty.

He shook his head. "Non. Jus' lettin' de past get de best of me."

Theo nodded, his posture relaxing. "I suppose we all do dat from time t' time." He elbowed Gris-Gris in the ribs, but the other man's only response was a grunt.

#-#-#-#

Rogue eventually wandered away from Remy's side, buying herself some much needed space from him as well as the delegation of Assassins. She resented being used as a weapon in the ongoing silent war between her husband and his kin, her presence Remy's way of subtly thumbing his nose at the two New Orleans guilds and their peace accord.

Sighing, she pinched the bridge of her nose where a headache was beginning to form. She couldn't blame Remy for being angry, though. Whatever Marius had said to him, it had been as cruel a blow as the Assassin could devise. She'd seen it in his eyes.

"Had all you can take?" Chess inquired gently as he wheeled himself up beside her.

Rogue straightened guiltily and let her hand fall to her side. "Yeah, pretty much," she admitted after a moment. She'd retreated to a corner of the room, as far from the cluster of people surrounding Remy and the Assassins as she could get without her absence becoming noticeable.

Chess rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and folded his hands in his lap. "The blood feud in New Orleans has been going on for centuries. This accord is the longest a truce has lasted in all of that time."

Rogue glanced over at him. "So how does the New York Guild figure into all this? Is the feud just between the folks in New Orleans or are there other Assassins guilds, too, and y'all just universally hate each other?"

Chess chuckled lightly at her description. "There are other Assassins guilds, yes, and the relationship between us and them is often strained. But New Orleans is the only place where two guilds inhabit the same city and it is the only place where the bloodshed has been consistent." He shrugged. "Having the External, Candra, meddling in affairs has not helped, either."

Rogue made a noncommittal sound. 'Meddlesome' was a good descriptor for Candra. The fact that she'd almost certainly graced Remy's bed at some point didn't win her any points in Rogue's book, either.

"New York's relationship with the Assassins Guild is relatively cordial," Chess continued. "Or it has been in the past, at least." He nodded toward the group surrounding Remy. "Now that we have inherited the Guildmaster's rather bitter history with them…" He shrugged. "We will have to see what happens."

Rogue sighed. "More politics." She decided to change the subject. "At least it looks like Remy was right an' the Assassins ain't gonna try anything tonight."

Chess raised his eyebrows. "On the contrary, Guildmistress. When they are taking their leave the risk will be greatest." When she turned to him in alarm, he added, "They are very good at killing in subtle ways, and once they've passed beyond our borders they will simply disappear."

Her stomach clenching, Rogue looked back toward her husband. She didn't think she would ever be able to face the prospect of losing him without feeling the familiar paralyzing bolt of fear.

As if Chess's words had been an augury, the knot of people broke apart. Marius and his assassins gathered on one side, Remy and the thieves on the other. There was no overt animosity in the confrontation, just a sudden, stiff formality and Rogue knew without having to ask that the Assassins were preparing to leave.

"I'd better get over there." Rogue picked up her skirt and hurried toward the group, Chess' warning ringing in her ears.

She slowed as she approached, trying to be inconspicuous. Remy and Marius were exchanging what sounded like scripted lines. She could see the bunched muscle in Remy's jaw that spoke of how tightly he was controlling himself.

The two men finished with a formal handshake entirely unlike the one that had started the meeting just as Rogue reached her husband's side. Marius pointedly ignored her as he stepped back and to the side, allowing one of the other assassins to take his place.

That man repeated an abbreviated version of the ritual and also shook Remy's hand while Marius spoke with Artur, who stood to Remy's right. A few minutes later Theo replaced the assassin Rogue had not been introduced to. Marius stepped back, his part apparently done. He crossed his arms, his gaze resting on Gris-Gris.

Remy and Theo talked for a few minutes in relatively friendly fashion. Theo even went so far as to address Rogue directly, which drew a dark scowl from Gris-Gris.

She responded as warmly as she could in that atmosphere, but the tableau behind Theo kept distracting her. Something about the way Marius was watching Gris-Gris nagged at her, making the hair on the back of her neck prickle in silent warning.

Eventually Theo stepped back, allowing Gris-Gris to take his place. Marius watched the exchange, his gaze narrowing a fraction. Rogue studied him, trying to identify the emotion reflected in his face.

It almost seemed like suspicion, she decided as Gris-Gris held out his hand. Remy reached out to accept the handshake and Marius's eyes flew wide in alarm. Instinctively Rogue followed his gaze, her attention jumping to Gris-Gris's outstretched hand as it closed around Remy's. At first she saw nothing, but then her stomach bottomed out as she realized he was wearing a thin band of some lightweight material around his middle finger. It was dyed the same dark color as his skin.

"No!" Rogue cried and leapt forward, blindly trying to knock the assassin's hand away.

"You _fool_!" Marius shouted at the same time. He spun toward Gris-Gris, lashing out with the edge of one hand, taking the assassin in the throat.

Remy jumped back and was immediately swarmed by thieves who pulled him away from the assassins, forming a human wall between him and them. A dozen shouts filled the air.

The combined weight of Rogue and Marius carried Gris-Gris to the ground. The assassin landed hard on his back. Rogue could hear him gagging, his windpipe crushed.

Marius grabbed a double fistful of his shirt and shook him. "You _dare_ violate a sworn truce? Idiot! All you had to do was wait."

Rogue caught Gris-Gris's right arm and pinned it beneath her knee. She could see the dark, narrow ring better now. A small spike on its inner surface glistened wetly.

"Poison," she gasped, twisting to look up at the thieves behind her. "It's poison." Beneath her, Gris-Gris thrashed in panic and then went still as unconsciousness claimed him. In a few more seconds he would be dead, she knew.

Men caught Marius' arms and dragged him away from Gris-Gris, holding him captive with his arms twisted behind his back. Out of the corner of her eye she noted Theo and the other assassin standing off to the side, their hands raised. The two thieves who had been guarding the doors had their weapons out and trained on them.

Remy pushed through the crowd of thieves, his voice strident and angry. He dropped to his knees beside Rogue and grabbed her arm, running his hands roughly along her skin and tracing the outlines of her fingers.

"Did he touch you?" he demanded. His hands continued their restless search, moving from her hands, along her forearm to the tender skin on the inside of her elbow and then along her upper arm to her shoulder. Without pausing he switched to her other arm. "A prick or a scratch? Anyt'ing?"

With a small gasp, Rogue looked down at her hands. She hadn't felt anything in the course of her short struggle with Gris-Gris, but that wasn't a guarantee.

"Ah don't think so," she told him as she frantically searched her skin for signs of blood. Finding nothing, she shook her head and forced herself to calm down. "No, he didn't get me. Ah'm fine."

Remy's expression went sick with relief before disappearing altogether. He rose to face Marius, and Rogue scrambled to her feet beside him.

"What kind o' poison was he using?" Remy demanded of Marius, his tone just shy of openly threatening.

Marius shook his head. "I can' say f' sure."

One of the thieves holding Marius struck him in the side of the head, but Remy shot the man a warning glare and the thief subsided.

"Take y' best guess," Remy told Marius. Something in his voice scared Rogue at a deep, visceral level.

Looking a bit mystified, the assassin complied. "It's probably an extract from de Blue Ring octopus. Why?"

Remy ignored his question. "What are de effects?"

Marius shrugged, his motion limited by the men holding him. "It shuts down the autonomous nervous system after about five minutes."

"Antidote?" Remy's flat expression gave nothing away.

Rogue's heart began to pound in helpless terror as Marius shook his head. "Non." His gaze narrowed. "An' again I ask y', why?"

Reaching down, Remy pulled back the cuff of his jacket, exposing the single drop of blood welling from a puncture on the inside of his wrist. His lips twisted in a sardonic expression.

"Because I need t' know how much time I've got."


	51. Chapter 51

Chapter 51

Rogue couldn't cry. Her eyes felt hot and scratchy, her throat raw, but the tears wouldn't come. She sat in a chair beside Remy's hospital bed with her elbows braced on her knees and toyed unseeing with her wedding ring. Around her people talked in low voices—Artur and Chess, Scott, Ororo and Logan—but none of them sounded like they were doing anything but trying to fill the silence. The pump driving Remy's heart made a rhythmic whirring noise, counterpoint to the hissing of the ventilator and the high-pitched beeping of the monitors.

On the far side of the bed, Bobby paced with his hands laced together on top of his head as if that were the only thing keeping him from putting his fist through the wall.

The room fell silent as Hank McCoy stepped inside, a clipboard clasped in one large, furry hand. Rogue straightened in her seat and felt Scott's hand close on her shoulder.

"What's the word, Hank?" Scott asked.

Hank reached up to adjust his glasses as he surveyed the room. "I have the results of Remy's blood work." His expression was solemn and Rogue's heart squeezed painfully tight.

When no one said anything else, Hank went on. "Mr. Boudreaux correctly identified the poison as being from the Blue Ring octopus. The toxin prevents the brain from regulating heart and lung functions, so without immediate access to medical care it is, in fact, quite deadly. Thankfully, that wasn't the case here." Hank nodded toward Remy's still form. "The good news is that the toxin has no other effects. Once it passes through the system, the brain will resume its autonomous functions as if nothing has happened."

Bobby's hands fell to his sides. "Does that mean he's going to be all right?" he asked, thin hope shining from his eyes.

Hank's expression closed on itself. His fingers flexed on his clipboard, black claws flashing. "If that were the only component of the poison," he answered softly, "the answer would be yes."

The words robbed Rogue of breath. She wrapped her arms around her waist, doubling over against the pain in her gut, and felt Scott's grip on her shoulder tighten. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Bobby turn away, his expression devastated.

"How bad is it?" Scott asked after a painful moment of silence.

"The second compound is a synthetic." Hank's expression turned diffident. "It's a rather elegant molecular killing machine."

"We should expect nothing less from the Assassin's Guild," Chess said, his voice flat. Rogue could see the anger snapping in his gaze.

Hank nodded. "The second substance is made up of large molecular structures that attach themselves to the artery walls. The structure is 'sticky' in the sense that passing platelets will adhere to it, eventually forming a mass—a manufactured blood clot, essentially. When these clots get large enough they'll break free, causing either heart attack or stroke, depending on the location."

Scott squeezed Rogue's shoulder again and released her. "Is there anything you can do?"

Hank shook his head. "Not really. I've given Remy a blood thinner in the hopes it will slow the process and I've already started some lab tests to see if we can find a drug capable of dissolving the large molecules, but short of that…" He trailed off with a shrug. "Because these molecules anchor themselves to the arterial walls, even a full blood transfusion wouldn't help. In fact, it would only speed the process."

Rogue swallowed painfully. "How long—?" Her voice broke and she had to start over. "How long does he have?" She couldn't look at Hank.

She heard Hank sigh. "I can't give you an exact time frame." He paused. "Twelve hours, maybe. Twenty-four at most."

Rogue felt the dismay that rippled through the room. It resonated deep in her heart, a heavy vibration that drowned out any hopeful thought. One day. She could hardly comprehend the idea of a tomorrow that didn't have Remy in it.

"Dr. McCoy." Artur's soft voice broke the silence. "Do you have any idea why the Guildmaster would have used literally his last breaths to send for this?" He extended one hand, in which he held a bottle of household drain cleaner.

Rogue glanced up at Artur, her heart clenching. Remy had not so much as looked at her as his lungs shut down on him. He'd been intent on Artur and his inexplicable instructions.

Hank shook his head. "I'm afraid I have no idea." He shrugged uncomfortably. "He was effectively suffocating. He might not have been entirely rational at that point."

"No, Hank." Bobby spun to face him. "Remy never does anything without a reason."

"I agree with Bobby," Artur said. His gaze roamed the room. "I was there, and I am certain the Guildmaster had a specific purpose in mind. He did not act like a man who expected to die."

Hank turned to face Artur, his expression sharpening with interest. "He asked for drain cleaner specifically?"

"It was part of a list. He said any of them would do." Artur ticked them off on his fingers. "Bleach, drain cleaner, carb spray..." He paused as if searching his memory.

"Anti-freeze," Rogue added. She reached over to take Remy's hand. It had to be important, didn't it? She didn't want to believe he could see his death coming and not at least try to say goodbye.

Artur nodded. "Yes, anti-freeze. That was the other one."

Hank's brow furrowed. "But he didn't give you any indication of what they might be for?"

"He didn't have time."

Rogue had to look away as the memories rolled over her. Because of the intensity of the situation and the amount of adrenaline pounding through his system, Remy had gone down in a little over a minute rather than Marius' predicted five. She didn't think she would ever forget the anger and frustration in his eyes in those last few moments of consciousness.

His expression thoughtful, Hank held out his hand, and Artur handed him the bottle of drain cleaner. "Will you have someone bring me samples of the other as well?" Hank asked as he turned it around to look at the back label. "Perhaps they all have a common ingredient that may shed some light on the intended purpose."

Artur nodded. "Of course."

Hank looked up again. "I would also like to speak to Mr. Boudreaux." His tone was studiously neutral. "Assuming he remains among the living."

"He lives," Chess answered sharply. He glanced over at Remy, his gaze shadowed. "Retribution will come later." He returned his attention to Hank. "For now he is being held in a Guild-controlled building not far from the Club. You will have to risk going above ground if you wish to talk to him, but it can be arranged." The Thieves had been unwilling to allow any of the Assassins knowledge of where the Guild's underground complex was located, a precaution Rogue agreed with wholeheartedly.

Hank nodded. "Thank you."

After a moment's silence, Scott cleared his throat. "I hate to ask this question," he began, his attention split between Artur and Chess, "but if Remy dies, what happens to the alliance?"

Bobby turned on him with a snarl. "Don't say that! He's not going to die!" He stared at Scott, raw anguish in his eyes. "He can't."

Scott's expression didn't change. "I know," he said softly. "But the question still needs to be asked."

Rogue wanted to clap her hands to her ears and scream "la la la" at the top of her lungs—anything to shut out the words. Instead, she turned toward Chess and forced herself to concentrate on his answer. This, too, was the life she had agreed to when she became Remy's wife. He would expect nothing less from her than to carry on in his stead, doing as much for the people of the Guild as she could.

Chess cocked his head as if debating how to answer. "Officially, there would be no change to the alliance. It is a duly sworn agreement and not so easily dissolved." He spread his hands. "But with the Guildmaster's death, Rogue would also lose her position and that will put our cooperation on much shakier ground, particularly if those opposed to the alliance can gain support."

Scott heaved a sigh. "All right. That's pretty much what I thought."

#-#-#-#

Jubilee looked around in a combination of wariness and curiosity as Louis led her into his lab in the basement of Our Mother of Mercy hospital. A tangle of equipment overflowed a table and a pair of ancient steel desks that had been pushed up against the walls. Several mismatched CPUs sat on the floor beneath the table with cables running from them to a stack of electronic components Jubilee didn't immediately recognize, as well as to several monitors. A clear plastic box mounted on a stand sat in the middle of the equipment. It was filled with something like clear jello and a complex system of tubes attached to the back of the box looked like they delivered saline and other substances to it. A thick tangle of black fibers, like a giant hairball, hung suspended in the jello and a number of wires ran from the interior of the box out to the computing equipment.

Jubilee stopped dead when she realized what she was looking at. "That's a neural net."

Louis nodded. "Taken from a fully-transformed prime."

She took a couple of steps to the side to view the net from a slightly different angle. She wasn't sure how close she wanted to get to it. "Does it work?"

Louis nodded again. "When it's powered up, yes. It works perfectly." He adjusted his white lab coat. "This is the first complete and undamaged neural net we've managed to take from a prime sentinel. It's very exciting."

Jubilee gave him an odd look. "It's freaky, dude." Seeing what the thing inside her head could become if given the chance gave her the cold shivers. "So what do you want from me?"

Louis gave her one of his disarming smiles. "We want to see if you can talk to it."

Jubilee crossed her arms beneath her breasts, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. "I don't know how I did that." And she so didn't want to do it again.

Louis didn't seem to notice her uncertainty. "If you _can_ communicate with it, we hope to be able to figure out how. Imagine what we could learn about the primes if we could query their systems in a format they're programmed to respond to."

_Imagine what kind of intelligence we could gather_, a voice in her head added in Wolverine's voice.

Hunching her shoulders, Jubilee forced herself a step closer to the neural net. "What do you want me to do?"

Louis motioned her toward the far side of the room, where a vintage, green vinyl-upholstered office chair sat next to a high-tech suite of monitoring equipment. "If you'll just sit over there…"

After a moment's hesitation, Jubilee did as he asked. She settled in the chair and laid her forearms on the armrests. The aging vinyl crackled as she shifted her weight. Her feet just barely reached the floor, so she wedged the toes of her sketchers between the chair wheels and the floor to hold them in place.

Louis bustled about her. He fitted a blood pressure cuff around her arm and attached electrode-like pads to her temples, the side of her neck and several places along her spine. The last set apparently needed to go near her heart. Louis reached for the buttons on her blouse and then froze with his hands halfway there, a look of utter panic flashing across his face. Then he ducked his head and handed her the pair of electrodes, muttering instructions about where they needed to go.

Jubilee found herself smiling as she tucked the sensors inside her bra. She felt a sudden, inexplicable wash of gratitude toward the scientist—the _man_—who had, if only for a moment, treated her like a regular girl.

"We should be able to detect and record any transmissions you make," Louis went on after a short bit. He stood to her left with his back to her, making adjustments to his equipment. "But I need you to tell me when you think you've made contact with the neural net." He glanced over his shoulder at her. "Being able to write down an approximate time stamp makes it a lot easier to find the right section of the data."

Jubilee just shrugged. "Okay."

She waited, fidgeting nervously, as Louis finished his adjustments and crossed the room to where the neural net waited. He typed several commands at one of the computers.

"Powering up the net now."

Jubilee's fingers tightened involuntarily on the armrests. She couldn't help but remember the other sentinel and the way it had stared at her.

Louis glanced over at her before returning his attention to the monitor. "All right. This appears to be booting properly. It should only take a couple of minutes." He crossed back to the equipment surrounding Jubilee. "I'll be monitoring your vitals as well as the brain activity traces."

"Okay." Jubilee picked at a tear in the vinyl covering one armrest pad. Her scalp prickled, the sensation sweeping from her forehead all the way down to the nape of her neck, and she shuddered.

"The net should have finished booting up." Louis glanced over at her. "You can start whenever you're ready."

"Which would be… uh… never?" she muttered under her breath.

"What?"

She cleared her throat. "Nothing, dude."

He gave her a slightly baffled expression but then dismissed the exchange with a shrug. Turning away, he went back to his readouts.

Jubilee closed her eyes. She had no idea how to do what they wanted of her. Maybe if she pretended to be a telepath. After all, neither Jean nor the Professor would find the idea of reaching from one mind into another the least bit strange. Probably not even if one of those minds was a machine.

She squirmed in the chair, searching for a more comfortable position, and then tried to imagine reaching out with her mind. She furrowed her brow like the Professor did, and tried to pretend she had a pair of invisible hands that could reach across the lab to poke their fingers into the sentinel's nasty black hairball.

She sat there for a good ten minutes, but nothing happened. Eventually, she opened her eyes.

"I don't think it's working," she said.

Louis glanced over at her. "Do you remember what you were thinking the first time you made contact?"

Jubilee gave him a sharp stare. "Duh. I was standing face to face with a sentinel. I thought I was freakin' gonna die." At the time, she'd been so frightened she couldn't even breathe and the memory was still strong enough to make her breath catch.

"And then what?"

Jubilee shivered. "The inside of my head itched." She looked away, her gaze unfocusing as the memories returned. "Then all of a sudden I knew it." She shrugged. "It… kinda said hi. I think."

Louis raised his eyebrows thoughtfully. "It sent you a hello packet." At her blank look he added, "That's how conventional computers establish a connection, so it isn't all that strange when you think about it."

Jubilee didn't particularly want to think about it but she figured she didn't have much choice. "Now what?"

With a shrug, he waved toward the neural net. "Try saying hello."

Jubilee turned toward the far side of the lab. "Hello," she mimicked sarcastically.

Louis shot her an oddly wounded look and she relented. He was a pretty nice guy. And it wasn't his fault that the sentinels his geeky mind found fascinating scared the crap out of her.

Sighing, she made herself look directly at the neural net. _Hi there. Nice to meet you_, she thought toward it. _Want to talk to me? Or maybe text, huh, seeing as you're a computer._ She smiled faintly at her own joke.

The smile fell away as the inside of her skull began to itch. Her hands tightened convulsively on the chair's arms. The net's ID string blazed in her mind.

US-2208-C371-24017

"It's the three-hundred seventy-first sentinel in the 2208-C series," Jubilee said quietly, her voice shaking. "It was made here in the States, at the Virginia assembly factory." She paused. "The one the X-Men hit."

"Your brain traces have changed," Louis told her with excitement tinging his voice. "What else do you know about it? Does it know where it is, what happened to it?"

Almost against her will, Jubilee turned back toward the sentinel. _Do you know where you are?_ she asked it.

Information slammed into her, painful in its intensity. She reared back in her seat and distantly she heard Louis' concerned voice. Images flashed to life behind her eyes—maps of New York, North America, the hemisphere. Data followed in a flood that broke over her like a heavy surf, drenching her in a churning, swirling flood. She fought desperately to keep her head above water as the information soaked into her. Some of it even made sense.

A diagram of the hospital flashed by and she grabbed at it, concentrated on the image until it settled in the front of her mind. It was like one of those science shows where they put a computer drawing on the screen and rotated it in multiple directions. The various floors of the hospital were stacked one on top of the other at discrete intervals, and at the very bottom of the stack a little dot pinged in the equivalent of a You Are Here sign.

"It knows where it is," Jubilee confirmed once she'd found her voice. "I can give you the GPS coordinates if you want."

For a moment she wondered what her own coordinates might be, and even before she'd fully formed the thought as second dot began to shine on the hospital map right next to the first. To Jubilee's amazement, the entire world seemed to unfurl from that single point. Suddenly she _knew_ where she was in a way that dwarfed anything she'd experienced in the past. From the hospital outward, she followed successive layers of maps—streets and buildings, utility districts, municipalities, zip codes, state boundaries, terrain features, national borders—until the massive pile of data threatened to overwhelm her.

Merely from the act of wanting to, she zoomed back down to the hospital diagram in a dizzying rush. The little dot representing the bodiless sentinel continued to ping away like a tiny beacon.

The thought made Jubilee's blood run cold. "Uh, dude… If the sentinel can talk to me, it can send to other sentinels, right?" she asked Louis.

"We've hooked it up to our own broadcast equipment and cut the signal strength way down," Louis answered. "A sentinel would have to be within about thirty feet to pick up its signal."

Jubilee wasn't entirely reassured. _So how 'bout it?_ she asked the neural net. _Any other sentinels out there?_

She waited, but there was no response except the single dot pinging on the map in her head.

#-#-#-#

Eventually, Bobby found himself tucked away in a cramped corner of Hank's lab, watching the other man work. As the hours ticked away and Remy's chances grew slimmer and slimmer, he'd found himself unable to stay in the hospital room. He was pretty sure it made him a coward, but he simply couldn't do it.

Remy was his brother and his friend, and he couldn't just sit there and watch him die.

Hank sat hunched over a complex-looking microscope, adjusting the knobs with blue-furred fingers. Beside him on the counter, several slides were laid out in a neat row with a rack of test tubes beyond. The tubes were filled with liquids in a wide variety of colors. The dark red was undoubtedly Remy's blood and Bobby recognized the virulent green as anti-freeze. Others were various shades of amber, ranging from a lager-like brown to a very pale gold. The smell of bleach hung faintly in the air.

"Gambit's blood is really quite remarkable," Hank commented without raising his head from the microscope.

Bobby stirred in his seat and cleared his throat, which remained painfully tight. "How's that?"

Hank paused to change out slides. "Most people have no idea just how complex mutations are. Take Cyclops for instance." He fiddled with a knob, frowned, and then turned his head to make a notation in the notebook lying open on his far side. "It's easy enough to say he fires concussive blasts from his eyes, but there is a great deal more to it. Do you know where the energy comes from?"

Bobby forced his brain to function. "Um… he absorbs it. Solar energy, right?" He was oddly grateful for the distraction and having a simple conversation turned into a lesson was something he had grown used to.

Hank nodded. "Primarily. He can also draw energy from the act of passing through the ambient EM fields produced by our society's rampant power consumption, but that conversion is far less efficient." Hank paused for a breath. "But the real question here is, do you know _how_ he does it?"

Bobby considered the question for a moment and then shrugged. He was too tired to want to think very hard. "Through his cells, I guess."

"Indeed." Hank made another notation and swapped slides once more. "The process starts with receptors in his skin that release unique proteins in response to radiation in a certain range of wavelengths—in this case, sunlight."

Bobby subconsciously shook his head. Remy would have rebuked him rather sternly for giving such a generic answer and the conversation would have ended right there unless he demonstrated a significant change in attentiveness. Remy didn't waste his time explaining things to people who weren't going to listen. Hank, on the other hand, loved knowledge for its own sake and would hand it out to anyone at any time in the hopes that they would keep even a little bit of it. But he would never demand that they pay attention.

The ache in Bobby's heart intensified. If Remy died, who would keep him honest?

He squared his shoulders. "I'm sorry, Hank. Yes, I know Scott metabolizes energy. It makes sense that he'd absorb it through his skin and I remember you saying something once about him storing it in his optic nerves somehow. Something about the fibers containing molecular capacitors, I think." Hank looked up at him in surprise and he flashed a humorless grin. "And getting that energy from Point A to Point B probably involves his blood. Believe it or not, I do listen to you."

Hank blinked a couple of times, looking nonplussed. "So I see." He shook himself and returned his attention to his samples. "Any way, the variety and complexity of the physical mutations necessary to support what we mistakenly label a single mutant power is truly astounding."

Bobby bit his lip, curious despite himself. "If so much of it is physical, why does the suppression field work on almost every power?"

Hank smiled without looking up. "Ah, the great mystery." He was silent for a moment, studying the view through his microscope. Then he sat back and pulled off his spectacles, rubbing his eyes with one knuckle. "Actually, it's not so mysterious. Imagine the mutant power as a muscle, if you will. All of the processes to maintain the muscle—to build it, feed it, repair it—are done automatically by the body. It isn't until you want the muscle to move that a direct command from the brain is required." He smoothed the fur on his cheeks and then resettled his glasses on his nose. "Suppress the brain's ability to send that command and you might as well not have the muscle."

Bobby nodded to show he understood. He gaze drifted back to the test tubes and he found his interest in the mechanics of mutant powers draining away. Despair trickled in behind it. "You aren't getting anywhere with this, are you?" He gestured toward the microscope.

Hank heaved a sigh. "As I said, Remy's blood is quite extraordinary. It's full of proteins and enzymes that are unique to him—no doubt part of the mechanism by which he metabolizes energy—but I'd need a research team and eighteen months to even begin to classify them all, let alone decipher their functions. And none of that information, even if I had it, is likely to offer me a solution to the present crisis." He reached out despondently to nudge the nearest of the slides with the point of his claw.

"I have no idea what Gambit could possibly have been thinking with these chemicals, Bobby. They're highly toxic, even corrosive in some cases: completely inimical to life of any sort." He looked up into Bobby's face, his ever-expressive blue eyes filled with regret. "And I cannot help but feel as though I am failing you yet again."

The comment snapped Bobby out of the downward spiral of his thoughts. He stared at his friend in confusion. "How have you ever failed me, Hank?"

Hank cocked his head to the side, his gaze frank. "I believe you have been a far better friend to me than I have to you, particularly these last few years."

Bobby stared at him, taken aback. It was true that he no longer labeled Hank as his best friend, but he had never harbored any resentment toward the other man. He'd simply grown in a different direction, particularly once the Guild became a part of his life.

"Blue, you've been my friend almost as long as I can remember," he protested after a minute.

A faint smile lifted the corner of Hank's mouth. "Indubitably," he agreed. "But lately, that has only been because you continue to come dig me out of my work." He made a vague gesture.

"Well, somebody has to." Bobby crossed his arms, feeling the first stirrings of anger. "Besides, what you do is important. Your research is important, and there's no one else who can do it."

Hank shook his head. "That's a poor excuse and we both know it."

'Hank—"

Hank held up a hand to forestall him. "Regardless," he continued, "I just want you to know that I appreciate your friendship and if there was _any_ way I could restore Gambit to health—"

The ache in Bobby's heart turned into a searing pain. "Stop it, Hank." He wasn't ready to hear confirmation that Remy wasn't going to recover. If Hank said it he would have no choice but to believe it, and he couldn't do that. Not yet.

Hank stared sorrowfully at him. "I'm sorry, Bobby, I—"

"I said _stop it_!" With a snarl of helpless fury, Bobby lashed out, sending the rack of test tubes flying across the room to shatter on the floor. The liquids they contained splattered in a wide, uneven star, darkening the stone and dripping from the wire rack.

Bobby curled his hands into fists and tipped his head back, eyes squeezed shut as he fought for calm.

Hank sucked in his breath in a hiss of surprise. "Oh my stars and garters."

Bobby bit the inside of his lip. "I'm sorry, Hank. That was inexcusable."

Hank's big hand closed on his shoulder. "No, Bobby, look."

Bobby opened his eyes and followed Hank's pointing finger toward the far side of the room. Amid the shards of broken glass, the mixture of blood and chemicals staining the floor had begun to glow a lurid pink.

#-#-#-#

It wasn't until Ororo broke down in tears that Scott gave in and accepted the inevitable. Ororo was always so cool, so resolute. He counted on that serenity when he felt like the world and everything in it had gone insane. To see her with her face buried in her hands, shoulders shaking as she sobbed… He shook his head. It was like a harbinger of the end of the world.

Strangely, it was Rogue who went to comfort her. Rogue had yet to shed any tears, but as the hours passed she had grown so pale she seemed almost translucent, save for the bruised smudges beneath her eyes. Still dressed in the gown she'd been wearing to meet the Assassins, Rogue sat down beside Ororo and wrapped her in a tight hug. She murmured soft words and stroked Ororo's hair while the other woman cried.

Scott glanced at his watch. They'd passed the twelve hour mark several hours earlier. Jean reached over to take his hand, but even that was little comfort.

People filled the small room and spilled out into the hallway. Thieves and X-Men, friends all, they sat or stood in small groups, their conversation muted. Doctor Lancaster stood beside the bed, his hands clasped in front of him as he watched the monitors. Scott could feel his frustration. He shared it.

A few minutes later, Tom O'Shane stood. He wiped his hands on his pants, looking uncomfortable.

"I'm going to turn on the TV on if no one minds," he said with a gesture toward the small flat screen hung in the corner of the room.

Several people looked up, including Rogue, but no one protested. Tom spent a moment searching for the remote and then pointed it at the television. The screen flickered to life, showing Trish Tilby's familiar face. Her voice filled the room.

"—a quiet few weeks here in the New York area. And while the X-Men are recouperating and preparing for their next mission, I want to take this opportunity to introduce them to you." The camera panned back to show Trish, dressed in a conservative pantsuit and seated on a tall stool in front of the now-familiar beige curtain. Her maimed hand was wrapped in a light bandage and lay in her lap with the other hand atop it.

"Tonight, I'd like you to meet a truly extraordinary man. He is a soldier and a husband. A leader and a friend. A man dedicated to the idea of peace, yet willing to wage war against OZT and even sacrifice his own life to see this country freed from Bastion's tyrannical influence." Trish paused dramatically. "And yes, he is a mutant. He's the architect of the resistance movement, the leader of the X-Men, and a hero in every sense of the word. His name is Cyclops."

Scott stared up at the screen as his own image appeared. "You've got to be kidding me."

Around the room, attention focused on the television. "Trish said she planned to do profiles of some of the X-Men," Jean reminded him. "We all agreed it was a good thing."

"I know." Scott slouched down in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose as the ache behind his eyes intensified. He remembered sitting with Trish in the news crew's makeshift recording studio for the interview. "But does it have to air _now_?" He glanced over at Remy's still form.

"Tell us a little bit about how the resistance movement came to be," Trish said from the television. "The fact that you and your small group of X-Men have managed to put together what appears to be a world-wide network of people dedicated to resisting OZT is nothing short of amazing."

"It is amazing," Scott heard himself reply.

"What made you believe that so many people would be willing to risk their lives to help the X-Men?"

Scott's head jerked up. "Turn it off," he told Tom sharply as his television double launched into a well-rehearsed narrative.

"Scott, what--?" Jean asked, a troubled frown creasing her brow.

"It's all lies," he told her. Every word of the carefully crafted story he'd given Trish had been aimed at keeping Bastion's focus trained on the X-Men, to shield both the Guild and the mutant underground from unwanted attention. But that didn't make him feel any less like a fraud. "_I_ didn't have anything to do with making the resistance happen. Charles built half of it, and Remy did the rest." He made a helpless gesture. "I'm just the guy in the middle."

Jean squeezed his arm, her touch warm and reassuring. "That's no small thing, either," she told him.

Scott didn't get a chance to respond as Hank burst into the room with Bobby hard on his heels.

"I've got it!" he exclaimed, waving a syringe in the air as he pushed his way into the room. People scattered, clearing him a path to Remy's side.

Scott rose instinctively to his feet, hardly daring to hope, and saw similar expressions reflected on the faces around him. He moved toward the foot of the bed as Hank caught Remy's arm in a tight grip and uncapped the syringe in his other hand with his teeth. Rogue went to stand by Remy's head, her fingers reaching out to smooth his hair back from his forehead, and watched Hank with wide eyes.

"What is that?" Dr. Lancaster demanded as Hank went to insert the needle. "What are you giving him?"

Hank glanced down at the syringe, which was filled with a bright green liquid. "It's anti-freeze." He looked up into the other doctor's shocked expression. "And yes, I am well aware of how toxic it is, but I believe it's also the miracle we've been looking for."

"Beast, are ya sure?" Rogue's voice barely rose above a whisper. Beside her, Bobby wrapped one arm around her shoulders and squeezed.

Hank drove the plunger down in a single smooth motion, emptying the syringe into Remy's vein. "Not completely, no," he answered without looking up.

Scott's stomach curled into a hard, cold knot. Dr. Lancaster was staring at Hank in a shocked kind of horror. Hank ignored him. Turning to the life support equipment, he reached over and switched off the machines keeping Remy alive. The heartbeat trace immediately flatlined, its harsh tone filling the stunned silence, and the hiss of the ventilator trailed away.

Rogue opened her mouth to protest but Hank held up a hand, silencing her. "Sixty seconds, Rogue. If this doesn't work, I'll turn them back on."

Dr. Lancaster gave him an accusing stare. "If it doesn't work, there won't be any point," he said, and the knot in Scott's stomach tightened another notch.

Hank acknowledged him with a half-shrug, his attention focused on his patient. He stared into Remy's face, his lips moving as if he were silently urging Gambit to wake.

The silence stretched.

Rogue clapped a hand across her mouth and Scott could see her begin to crumble. Bobby's grip on her tightened.

Then the heart monitor beeped. Rogue's eyes flew wide.

Scott stared at the single blip scrolling across the screen, uncertain whether to believe it was real. Before he could decide, the machine beeped again and then picked up in a steady sinus rhythm. Remy's chest rose as he drew a breath and to Scott's utter amazement, his eyelids began to flutter.

A moment later, Remy opened his eyes.

The room dissolved into pandemonium. Hank immediately bent over his patient, speaking to him in a calm, reassuring tone as he began unhooking the breathing equipment. Remy nodded in response to something he said, obviously alert and coherent.

Scott discovered he was shaking. He staggered to the nearest empty chair and sank into it, lacing his fingers together to keep them still. Jean joined him, silently wrapping her arms around his neck in a hug and Scott held her tight.

Logan collapsed into the chair on his far side. He crossed his arms and laid his chin on his chest. "Gambit sure ain't lost his flare fer the dramatic," he commented, which made Jean laugh.

"No, he hasn't," Jean agreed. She sat back, dabbing moisture from the corners of her eyes.

Scott found himself unable to summon a smile. His muscles felt like they'd turned to water and his stomach heaved and twirled in a sickening dance.

Logan gave him a concerned look from beneath his eyebrows. "You okay, Cyke?"

Jean, too, turned to look at him and he shook his head. "We almost lost everything," he said after a minute. "Remy, the alliance, our base of operations, the chance to get into space…" He made an aimless gesture. "They're like dominos, and Remy's the first one. Knock him down and the rest of them collapse, too."

Logan raised his eyebrows. "Yer only just now figurin' that out?"

Scott stared at him in surprise, but then shrugged. "Yeah, I guess so."

Turning, he looked toward the object of their conversation. Hank had finished the unpleasant task of removing Remy's breathing tube and now had one large hand firmly planted against his chest, preventing him from sitting up. Which, judging from Remy's expression, was going over just about as well as it ever had.

"May I remind you that you were on life support just a couple of minutes ago," Hank was telling Remy, his tone full of forced patience. "So no, I am not going to let you up until I've had the chance to examine you."

Remy glared at him but then surrendered with a muttered string of curses. Rogue stroked his hair, her expression dazed. She looked like she was having trouble processing the sudden turnaround.

"How long was I out?" Remy asked hoarsely.

Hank pulled a pen light from his coat pocket which he used to check Remy's pupils. "Nearly sixteen hours."

The answer garnered another round of curses that dissolved into a short coughing fit. "Please tell me nobody went an' started a war wit' de Assassins over dis."

Artur took a couple of steps toward the bed, putting himself within Remy's range of vision. "No, Guildmaster," he said quietly. "We were… waiting."

Scott saw Remy pause, as if he were only just beginning to realize what the situation had been like in his absence. He looked upward at Rogue and then at Bobby beside her, and finally over at the thief, his expression crooked. "'M sorry I scared everyone." His gaze flicked to Hank. "Why'd it take so long?"

Hank snorted, his nostrils flaring in irritation. "Because, my dear Gambit, you neglected to mention that your highly mutated blood can charge up and destroy contaminates all on its own."

Remy's brow crinkled as if he were chasing down a memory. "Guess I didn' get dat far, did I?" he admitted ruefully. Behind him, Rogue's expression darkened, but he didn't seem to notice. He flashed Hank a smile. "Now will y' let me up, Monsieur Bete? I guarantee y' my blood's clean. Once y' start de burn, it eats up everyt'ing."

Curiosity and aggravation warred in Hank's expression, but Scott wasn't terribly surprised to see curiosity eventually gain the upper hand.

"I assume that without the suppression field's interference you can control the charge?" Hank asked.

Remy nodded. "Oui. But wit' my powers suppressed, it takes a critical mass—a certain volume—t' set it off."

"Which, I suppose, would explain why the list you gave Artur contained such disparate chemicals."

Remy shrugged. "Don' matter what it is, so long as it's poisonous an' dere's enough of it." A hint of his smile returned. "I even drank m'self into it one time. Went from completely plastered t' stone sober in about two seconds." His grin deepened. "It was a pretty rude shock, I'll tell y'."

Shaking his head, Scott stood. He still felt a little unsteady in reaction to knowing just how close they'd come to catastrophe, but he'd seen enough to convince him that things would be returning to normal before very long. He could go back to doing his job.

He helped Jean to her feet. Crossing the few paces to the bed, he clapped Beast on the shoulder. "Thanks, Hank," he told the other man softly. Then he turned to Remy.

"I'd tell you to stay out of trouble, but there's just no point, is there?"

Remy chuckled. "Not really."

Scott found himself grinning. "Well, don't stay in bed all day. We've got work to do."


	52. Chapter 52

Chapter 52

Marius Boudreaux rose to his feet and crossed himself as Remy walked into the well-appointed suite in which the Guild leader and his two assassins were being held. For once, the reaction didn't bother Remy too much. Theo and the other assassin, too, stared at him as if they couldn't quite believe what they were seeing.

"Y' really are a devil," Marius said as Remy came to halt in front of him. 

Remy allowed himself a small smile. Out of the corners of his eyes, he could see the heat signatures of the two thieves who flanked him flickering—Tom O'Shane's with smug satisfaction and Artur's with a far broader mix of emotions.

Remy returned his attention to Marius. "Y' neglected t' mention Gris-Gris's poison might have a second component," he said after a moment.

Marius shrugged, seeming to recover his poise. "I answered de mutant docteur's questions," he countered. 

"Because y' didn't expect it t' make a difference."

Marius's heat signature flashed, giving Remy all the confirmation he needed. Remy kept his expression still. Let the Assassins Guild chemists spend their time chasing an antidote that didn't exist.

Remy gestured toward the carved table that sat in the center of the room. "Have a seat, Marius. You an' I need t' discuss y' intentions in de matter o' dis contract on m' life."

Marius' signature spiked, but he acquiesced with a nod. He returned to his seat at the table, where he settled comfortably and crossed his legs. At a gesture from Artur, Theo and the other assassin backed away. 

Remy took the seat across from Marius, careful to keep his motions smooth and casual. Exhaustion dogged him, the consequence of having been on life support for half a day. It didn't seem right that he'd spent sixteen hours unconscious and come out the far side more tired than he'd begun.

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his ankles, regarding the other man evenly. For the first time in his life, Remy found himself in a position of strength versus the Assassins. If he weren't so tired—and if Belle weren't dead—he would have thoroughly enjoyed sitting there, letting the silence stretch.

Finally, Marius stirred. "Rogue's got a sharp eye," he said in an inflectionless voice.

Remy nodded as if it were an utterly normal comment. By mentioning Rogue at all, and particularly by paying her a compliment, Marius was acknowledging his weakened bargaining position and expressing a willingness to negotiate. But given how much damage having one of the assassins under his authority violate a sworn truce had done his reputation, he had little choice if he wanted to leave Thief territory alive.

"Dat she does," Remy agreed mildly. He didn't offer anything else, however, forcing Marius to take the initiative again.

Marius brushed imaginary lint from his pants leg. "Very well." He raised his head to stare at Remy directly. "De contract."

"How much?" Remy asked. The number would tell him a good deal about what kind of contract it was, and just how intently Bastion wanted him dead.

"Seven million." 

Remy stared at Marius in dismay and saw his councilors' signatures flare. That kind of money could only mean one thing. 

"Guild-sealed?" he asked, though he already knew the answer. A standard contract could be negated in a number of ways, including by killing the assassin with whom the contract had been made. But a Guild-sealed contract was, in effect, guaranteed by the Assassins Guild at large. It didn't matter how long it took or how many assassins were involved.

Marius nodded, satisfaction and frustration coloring his signature though Remy was certain his expression gave none of it away. 

Remy's thoughts turned furiously as he tried to interpret the information. Gris-Gris's attempt made little sense in the context of a Guild-sealed contract. Those could take years to complete. Even his anger over Belle's death didn't explain him rushing into an attack he would have little chance of surviving.

Remy laced his fingers together and rested them against the edge of the table. "I'm beginnin' t' think Gris-Gris's poison was aimed at you as much as me."

An unhappy little ripple in Marius' heat signature confirmed his guess. Which meant there was a cabal inside the New Orleans Assassins Guild that was trying to take Marius down.

Remy raised his eyebrows. "I'd jus' as soon not have m' guild used as de weapon o' choice in an Assassins' coup."

Marius uttered a small snort. "I t'ink we can agree on dat." He cocked his head. "Does dat mean y' plannin' t' let me an' my men walk out o' here?"

Remy kept his expression even. "If we can come t' terms on dis contract."

"It's Guild-sealed." Marius spread his hands in a helpless gesture, though his heat signature was merely wary. "M' hands are tied."

Remy spent a moment considering him. Marius obviously felt no remorse over the fact, nor would Remy have expected him to. 

"Whose choice was de seal?" he finally asked. If Marius had offered it to the client, Remy would have the option of interpreting the act as the opening salvo of a vendetta. Meaning Remy could kill him if he wanted and legitimately claim self-defense should any Guild leaders call him to account.

"Not mine," Marius answered, and his heat signature confirmed he was telling the truth. He shrugged. "Gris-Gris told me Bastion's right-hand man knew enough t' ask f' those terms, but I only have his word f' it."

Remy kept his sudden interest hidden, though he doubted Marius needed to see his reaction to know how valuable the information was. The X-Men hadn't heard about Bastion having a lieutenant. Marius had mentioned Bastion's man deliberately—a new bargaining chip tossed onto the table to see what Remy might be willing to offer in exchange. 

Remy didn't bite immediately. Instead, he went back to the contract. "Just t' confirm m' understanding… de only way a Guild-sealed contract can end—other than fullfillin' it, o' course—" He flashed the assassin a sardonic smile, "is if de client dies."

Marius tipped his head to the side, his body language evaluating. "True enough," he finally agreed. "Though a contract c'n be passed unbroken t' de client's heir, should dat heir be willin' t' accept de terms."

Remy tucked that information away for future consideration. He had no idea if Bastion had any children or an estate to pass down to them if he did, but now he was going to have to find out. He wondered momentarily how Bastion might be funding the contract. If he was using government money, leaking that information at an appropriate time could be advantageous to the resistance, as well. 

"All right." Remy shifted in his seat, wincing invisibly as his leg twinged. "Tell me about Bastion's man."

Marius shook his head. "Y' still haven't told me whether y' intend t' let us walk out o' here."

Remy watched the other man's heat signature for a moment, looking for signs of duplicity and finding none. "Oui," he finally agreed. "Y' walk—on one condition."

Marius' heat signature flared, but his voice remained mild. "Dat bein'?"

"Dat y' agree wit' me dat it'd be in everyone's best interests t'… drag y' feet a bit on dis contract." The X-Men already had Bastion squarely in their sights. If Remy could buy himself some time before the Assassins began actively pursuing their contract, he might just be able to negate it from the client's end before it became an issue.

Marius' signature flickered thoughtfully as he weighed his options. "I don' see why it wouldn' take a few months t' get organized," he finally allowed.

Remy nodded. Marius couldn't afford to delay too long or he risked seeming ineffective to his own people, which would only undermine what already appeared to be a weakening position. And as much as Remy despised the leader of the Assassins Guild, he still preferred a devil he knew to one he didn't. Keeping Marius in power served the thieves' interests as well.

"Bastion's man," he reminded Marius after a few moments.

With a nod, Marius complied. "His name is William Green," he began. "British national, born in Suffolk in 1962. Never married, no children. He served in de British Army an' den joined Black Air. He spent a couple o' years in de U.S. as some kind o' liaison t' de FBI's mutant counter-terrorism division. He left Black Air about four years ago an' now he works f' OZT." 

"Bien." Remy rose to his feet and Marius copied him. He smoothed his tie and rebuttoned his suit jacket, signaling his intention to leave. Behind him, he heard Tom speak briefly via radio with the thieves who were monitoring the flight path of the sentinel that regularly patrolled this area, verifying that it remained on its usual route.

Remy gave Marius one last glance. "Have a pleasant flight back t' New Orleans," he said and walked out, taking his thieves with him. 

x-x-x-x

Remy took a sip of his coffee and set the mug back down on his desk with a small thump, careful to avoid the new pile of drawings that had taken up residence on the ancient wood's surface. Around him, Scott, Logan, Chess, Mystique and Marcus had gathered for what was becoming a regular morning breakfast and brainstorming session as they tried to formulate a workable assault plan on Bastion's space station.

"Dat pressure bulkhead is gon' be a big problem," Remy commented. The bulkhead in question divided the hangar deck area from the control room for the suppression array master scheduling system.

Scott massaged his temples, his heat signature muddy. "We're just going to have to find some place to cut through." He sounded tired already.

"Takes too long," Marcus said through a mouthful of bagel. "Between the surveillance system and the roaming guards, there's no way we'd stay undiscovered. There's two and a half feet of metal there."

Scott let his hands fall to his lap. "If there weren't who knows how many prisoners up there, I'd suggest we just pack enough explosives with us to blow the whole thing out of the sky."

Chess shook his head. "Even that wouldn't work, unfortunately." He leaned forward, bracing himself with his elbows on the arms of his wheelchair. "If I understand the system correctly, destroying the master controller would have little direct impact. The control functions are all duplicated in two other control centers on other satellites. You'd have to destroy all three. We have to get into the controller program and reschedule the arrays."

"An' dat's gon' take a couple o' hours, at least," Remy added. "De arrays themselves take a lot o' time t' move." Though he couldn't actually see Scott's eyes, he stared into the other man's face, trying to impress on him the scope of what he wanted to accomplish. "We're gon' have t' have control o' de space station t' pull it off."

"We don't have the manpower to control the station." Scott sank back in his chair.

"Set the prisoners loose," Logan suggested. "That's yer manpower right there."

"Maybe." Remy could tell from Scott's voice that he didn't like the suggestion. "But we'd have no way of knowing what kind of shape they're in or what they'd be able to do. We certainly couldn't hope to control them. We could end up with a riot on our hands."

Logan shrugged, acknowledging his point.

The door on the far side of the office opened and Rogue walked out. She went to the wet bar and poured herself some coffee then crossed the room to the desk.

"'Mornin' everyone," she said, her voice friendly but edged with wariness.

The gathered group returned her greeting in varied manner. Remy watched her for a long moment to see if she would turn his direction or in some way acknowledge his presence. When she didn't, he picked up his coffee and sipped it, regarding her over the rim. 

"Good mornin', cherie," he said, unable to completely keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

A twitch of her shoulders was her only reaction. "Ah'll be in the school this mornin' if anyone needs me." She again addressed the group at large, and with a little hoist of her mug she set off for the door leading out into the complex.

Mystique began to chuckle as the door swung shut behind Rogue. "Is she _still_ mad?"

Remy snorted. "She ain' mad."

Mystique cocked her head to the side, and Remy could imagine her smile. "She hasn't spoken to you in how many days now?" Her voice was syrupy. "And she's not mad?"

Remy set his coffee aside, keeping his expression still with an effort. "Rogue yells when she's mad." 

"_That's_ true." Logan leaned back in his chair and laced his hands behind his head. "So what is she right now?"

Remy rolled his eyes. "Royally pissed."

Logan and Mystique both burst out laughing and, after a moment, Marcus joined them. Remy hunched his shoulders, fighting the instinct to snap at them. He knew Rogue was angry. He had a pretty good idea why. He just wasn't sure he had the energy to deal with the inevitable blowup and whatever fallout might result.

"At least we don't have to brace for the sonic boom any more," Scott commented wryly.

Remy saw spikes of interest from both of the thieves. "Sonic boom?" Chess asked after a moment.

"Yeah." Scott ran a hand through his hair, sounding darkly amused. "You could always tell how upset Rogue was by what altitude she went supersonic at." He waved a hand in the air. "Most of the time it was just a rifle crack, but when she wanted to make a point…" He paused and Remy had the distinct impression he was on the receiving end of a rather sharp look, "she'd hit the mach boundary only a couple hundred feet above the mansion. Rattled the house down to its foundations."

Remy shook his head at the memories. Across the desk, Chess's heat signature cycled through a range of colors as if he were being forced to reassess the people around him. Which, Remy conceded, he probably was. Guild culture tended to minimize mutations, even as it accepted them. Powers drew attention and were not to be used outside the Guild where someone might see. And Chess himself was human, so that probably affected his awareness as well. Remy doubted he'd given much thought to what kind of powers Rogue might have.

Logan stretched briefly and then crossed his arms over his chest, his attention focused on Remy. "Ya gotta admit, though, the woman has a point this time around." His tone was challenging.

Remy's irritation with the entire situation crystallized. "She don' get t' have a point until she actually says somet'ing," he returned. He stared evenly at Logan. "Same goes for you, eh? If y' got somet'ing t' say, mon ami, y' should jus' spit it out."

Logan shrugged, unperterbed. "Nah. I'll give Rogue first dibs."

Remy uttered a grating sigh. He shifted his attention to Scott, whose signature glowed with a faint, low grade anger.

"How 'bout you, O Fearless Leader? You got anyt'ing t' contribute?" Remy asked sharply. He wasn't sure why he was prodding them, except that he was tired of the insinuations. 

Scott's signature intensified. "Gambit, you've heard my that-was-a-stupid-stunt-don't-do-it-again speech about a million times. Do I really need to repeat it?" His voice was tight.

Remy stared at him, but eventually shook his head. "Non. I remember how it goes," he answered, managing to keep the sarcasm out of his tone. If Scott launched into one of his lectures, Remy would lose his grip on his temper for certain.

Scott nodded. "Good. You're too important to lose to some misguided notion of secrecy."

"Excuse me?" Remy stared at him. "_Misguided?_" He was peripherally aware of the two thieves looking between them with alarm in their signatures.

Scott's heat signature began to flare unevenly. "That's what I said." Remy could imagine his accusing expression. "You should have said something about how your blood works."

"An' I've told y' before dat a good t'ief don' ever give up an advantage." Remy tried to curb his frustration. "De minute I open m' mouth, de information's _out there_ an' my Get Out o' Death Free card goes up in flames."

"You very nearly died anyway." Scott crossed his arms, his heat signature bright with anger and underlain with colors Remy associated with fear, though he wasn't certain what the cause might be. "Primarily because you _didn't_ say anything."

"True. I got taken by surprise." He had to give Scott that much. He hadn't given enough thought to how the Assassins' internal politics might affect the situation. 

Remy shrugged. "It happens, eh? But I ain' gon' spend somet'ing dat valuable on anyt'ing less than a real threat." Why Scott couldn't understand that, he would never know.

Scott stared at him for a long moment before shifting his attention to the rest of the group. "Would you all mind giving us the room for a minute, please?" he asked in a deceptively mild voice.

Remy watched the X-Men's team leader warily as the others filed out, closing the heavy office door behind them.

"Y' lookin' f' some privacy t' yell in?" he inquired acidly once they were gone.

"Cut the crap, Remy." Scott uncrossed his arms and sat forward. "Yours is not the only life on the line here." 

"You t'ink I don' know dat?" Remy shoved himself to his feet and walked a couple of paces away from the desk. His stomach churned with equal parts anger and pain. "Belladonna's dead f' knowin' me. Warren took a bullet in de chest because o' my political enemies. An' Rogue—" He cut his gaze toward Scott as the pain in his gut sharpened into a knife point. "Rogue's thrown her entire life away, so _don'_ tell me I don' understand what's at stake."

Scott regarded him for a long moment, the colors of his heat signature shifting toward cooler, calmer tones. He steepled his fingers in front of his face. "Honestly, I'm not sure you do. Or maybe you've just lost your vision." He tapped his temple, his tone dry. "No pun intended."

Taken aback, Remy could only stare at him. 

Scott leaned back in his chair once again. "Have you forgotten that you built this alliance?" He pointed a finger at Remy. "You saw the danger coming before anyone else did and you put all the pieces in place to make _this_ happen." He made a sweeping gesture. "And whether you like it or not, you're the glue that holds it all together. If we lose you, we lose this war. It's as simple as that. So you do _not_ get to risk your life for a _possible_ advantage at some undefined point in the future. Have I made myself clear?"

Remy rocked back in surprise—not just for the words themselves, but the vehemence with which Scott said them. On his list of conversations he never expected to have with the X-Men's field leader, this one ranked fairly close to the top and left him feeling a distinct sense of unreality

"Do y' know how many times over I'd be dead right now if I didn' live like dat?" he finally asked. The forces that governed the universe seemed to have crushing Remy LeBeau on their agenda and he had so far escaped only because he'd hoarded his small store of advantages and played them only when he absolutely had to. He'd learned that lesson on the street, where there was always someone bigger and meaner and with more dangerous friends than you, and there was no such thing as safety. Having a surprise hidden up your sleeve was often the only difference between life and death.

Scott regarded him evenly. "I'm not saying you should change the way you live. We'd all be dead right now if not for that." He shrugged. "What I am saying is that you need to reevaluate what constitutes an acceptable risk in the context of our current situation."

He paused, tiny streaks of frustration coloring his heat signature. "Look, Remy. If you were hanging out there entirely on your own I would understand having that mindset. But the last time I checked, the X-Men were still a team, and I don't think you've put _that_ into your calculation."

Reeling internally, Remy crossed the short distance to the desk and collapsed once again in his chair. The message from Scott was clear; _You're not alone. The X-Men always take care of their own. Trust doesn't exist in a vacuum, Remy._

The truth was that he'd never really expected to win the X-Men's trust. For most of the time he'd been with them he'd deliberately cultivated a persona they wouldn't put their confidence in because it bought him the freedom to do what he needed to without their interference.

But the world had changed drastically since then. The X-Men had changed, too. And now he was faced with the rather stunning realization that Cyclops _trusted_ him, with the same laser-sharp, black-and-white certainty with which he always did such things.

Worse yet, he was expecting the same in return.

Remy slipped a couple of cards from the pack he still habitually carried in an inner pocket of his jacket, threading them between his fingers. The repetitive nature of the dexterity exercise helped soothe his nerves and provided a cadence to which he could organize his spinning thoughts.

The problem was that Scott's trust—the X-Men's trust—and their willingness to watch his back in general would only last as long as they remained ignorant of the truth about the deal he'd made with Sinister all those years ago. If it was just a matter of the deaths of the Morlocks, they might be willing to forgive. But it wasn't, and Remy had no choice but to plan for the day it all unraveled. After having been banished from his home once, he knew better than to believe his place with the X-Men could ever be secure.

But that was all in the future. For now—and for as long as he could make it last—he had a very valuable relationship with X-Men. He would do as much good with it as he could while the opportunity remained.

Sighing, he snapped the cards in his hand to a halt and then switched directions. "I guess it's no secret I ain' never been much of a team player," he said with only the barest glance in Scott's direction.

The other man shrugged. "That's debatable."

The comment drew a pained snort from Remy. "Flattery'll get y' nowhere," he deadpanned, to which Scott chuckled lightly.

"Just as long as you've heard what I said."

Remy raised one hand in a gesture of surrender. "D'accord." What he could realistically do about it was a different issue entirely, but Scott didn't need to know that.

"All right." Scott levered himself to his feet. "Then I'm going to go let the others know we haven't killed each other in here, and we can get back to work on this mission." He waved a hand toward the piled drawing on the desk.

Remy found himself smiling crookedly at the mental image the comment conjured. "I t'ink Logan may faint dead away."

Scott headed toward the door. "Either that or he's been taking bets."

x-x-x-x

The first thing Rogue noticed about her husband when he walked into their quarters was how tired he looked. Beast had already corralled her once during the last couple of days to express his concern that Remy wasn't giving his system time to recover from the stress of nearly dying before returning to his regular breakneck schedule.

Which, she decided as he crossed the room to the closet, he very obviously wasn't. He didn't say anything to her as he pulled out a gym bag and tossed a couple of items into it, then went back into the closet to change into the dark, tight-fitting gear the thieves practiced in. Rogue checked her watch. It was close to midnight already.

She bit her lip. Refusing to speak to him had seemed like an appropriate way to convey just how angry she was at him without the screaming that would most certainly have ensued had she actually tried to say something. She was pretty sure she didn't have enough self-control to have kept it civil. Even now, just thinking about it was enough to jolt her with adrenaline and to send her stomach into freefall. 

The problem was that Remy was pretty good at the silence game, too, and the longer it went on the more the distance between them ate at her. She missed him acutely. She missed his smile and the warm rumble of his voice when it was just the two of them. She missed being close enough to smell his aftershave, and the feel of his hands on her skin.

Sighing, she set aside the invoices she was trying to sort. There was no telling what might happen if she opened her mouth but she could already tell she was going to. 

"Hank told ya to rest, sugah," she said as he emerged.

He stopped short, anger flitting across his face before his expression disappeared altogether. "Y' haven' said a word t' me f' nearly five days, an' now y' want t' scold me f' not followin' doctor's orders?" He sounded incredulous.

Rogue pursed her lips. "Yeah, ah'm funny that way."

Remy stared at her for a long moment then shook his head in obvious disgust. "I don' have time f' dis." He grabbed his bag and started toward the door.

Anger leapt up inside her, fierce and hot. "It ain't bad enough that the Assassins have an open contract on ya? Ya have ta go an' help 'em along by runnin' yaself inta the ground, too?" 

Remy exhaled sharply and tossed his bag down on the end of the bed. "What do y' want from me, Rogue? I got apprentices t' train."

She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. 

"Fine." He grabbed the bag and started toward the door.

"Ya had no right!" The words exploded out of her before he'd gone two steps.

He stopped and turned, his expression wary. Rogue jumped out of her chair. She stalked toward him, her hands balling into fists at her sides. "Ya had no right ta put me through that! Not any of us!" Everything she'd felt sitting in that hospital room came back in a rush. "Do ya have any idea what it was like ta have ta sit there an' listen ta Hank tellin' me there was nothin' he could do? Ta have Scott askin' how we were gonna keep the alliance together once ya were _gone_?"

Remy's expression gave little away, but he sighed and tossed his gym bag down beside the door, out of the way. "I _am_ sorry I scared y', chere. It wasn' my intention, obviously."

"That's not the point!" She half-raised her hand, but let it fall again as his expression darkened.

"No, de point is dat I made a _choice_—one dat didn' work out so well, turns out—an' instead o' gettin' de faintest bit o' support or—heaven forbid—_sympathy,_ all I get is people blamin' me f' makin' a mess!" He glared at her, his red eyes like embers. 

The pain in his voice made Rogue pause. Remy, however, seemed to interpret her silence more pessimistically. Muttering curses under his breath, he turned away, grabbed his bag and was gone, leaving the door ajar behind him.

Rogue covered her mouth with one hand as she stared at the empty doorway. 

x-x-x-x

"So, dude, you've gotta fill me in on the latest gossip." Jubilee glanced over at Logan as the pair of them walked down the sidewalk. They were in a rougher part of the city. Old cars and trash lined the streets and gang graffiti marked the buildings, many of which looked to be abandoned. On one corner, a group of homeless men huddled around a burn barrel, their laughter raucous. Further on, a trio of young black men sat on the bumper of a tricked-out older Cadillac. Music pounded from the car's stereo system.

Logan snorted, his gaze never pausing as it roamed their surroundings. "I don't do gossip, Jubes."

"Aw, come on! I haven't seen anybody in _forever_." She caught his arm, sidling along sideways to keep up with his stride. "Please?" She gave him her best smile.

"Yer supposed ta be seein' what ya can pick up from patrolling sentinels."

Jubilee frowned at the reminder. "I told you, there aren't any in range right now." She _was_ keeping her radar on, or whatever it was that made the sentinels show up on her internal map. They'd been working their way in a wide circle, starting at O-MOM and cutting through several of the sentinels' primary flight routes over the city. Each of the sentinels they had encountered had returned her greeting and then queried her about the status of the mutant beside her. Jubilee had discovered that she had the ability to tag various things in her environment with labels the other sentinels would understand, so she'd put an "under control—reserved" tag on Logan and so far none of the sentinels had done more than look at him.

Logan heaved a sigh. "What do ya want to know?" he asked.

"Well," Jubilee had to stop and think. "How's Jean? Has she had the baby?"

Logan shook his head. "Not yet. She's not due fer another month or so."

"Is she big as a house yet?"

"Jubilee!" Logan sent her a sharp look and she relented with a laugh.

"Okay, okay. But I have a really hard time imagining Jean out to here." She held her arms out, miming a pregnant woman's stomach.

Logan shook his head. "Yer impossible."

Before Jubilee could come up with something else to say, her thoughts were interrupted by a veritable explosion of dots on her mental radar. She counted twelve, arrayed in a geometric pattern as they moved slowly along the periphery of her awareness.

"Yo, heads up," she told Logan, her attention focused on the sentinels. "There's something big going on the next block over." Her radar only extended a few hundred feet. She described the group of sentinels to him.

"Sounds like they're on the ground, then," Logan commented. "They're movin' too slow ta be in flight."

Jubilee nodded. "Stay here, dude. I'm going to go see what's up."

Logan's response was a dangerous growl, but she'd known him long enough for that not to scare her. She shrugged. "I don't want to have to explain to all twelve of them that they don't get to kill you, okay?"

Logan accepted that, though he didn't look happy about it. As Jubilee started up the sidewalk alone, she saw him step into an empty doorway to wait. The group of homeless men had disappeared, too, she noticed. Their barrel continued to burn, throwing cascades of sparks into the air, but she saw no sign of the men. People who lived on the street seemed to develop an uncanny sense for danger, she thought. Maybe because their lives were so precarious already.

She came to the next intersection and paused in the shadow of the nearest building, startled. The dozen sentinels she'd seen walked down the middle of the street in formation, but they weren't alone. Interspersed among the sentinels were giant cat-like robots. The winter sun reflected whitely off their metal skeletons, and their claws left gouges in the asphalt as they walked. 

Instinctively, Jubilee sent a greeting to the nearest of the robots. The feline creature turned its head in her direction and hissed. The sound made all the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. It returned her greeting with a standard identity string response, but appended a stern warning to stay away which Jubilee was more than happy to acknowledge. 

A group of men dressed in OZT battle gear followed the mixed group of sentinels. Jubilee counted thirty human enforcers. They, combined with the dozen sentinels and six CATs, made for a significant assault force.

_Objective?_ she queried one of the human sentinels.

Plans flashed to life behind her eyes—diagrams of the building with ingress and egress routes outlined, mission parameters, targets, and assault protocols. Jubilee staggered into the wall of the building beside her, fingers catching on the grooves in the rough brick face as she tried to stand up under the deluge of information. 

It wasn't until she'd absorbed the images of the targets that fear set in. Doctor Reyes' face hovered in her mind's eye along with reams of personal data, as well as Louis and Allie and several other members of the team.

Turning, she shoved away from the wall and launched herself into an unsteady run back toward Logan.

"They're going to the hospital," she gasped when she reached him. Quickly she described the group of sentinels and enforcers, ending with, "They have orders to kill Doc Reyes and her team. We have to warn them!" 

Nodding, Logan dug into his coat pocket for his cell phone, dialed and held the small piece of electronics to his ear, but she could tell immediately that something was wrong. Cursing, he hung up and dialed again, then shook his head.

"No good." He glanced up at the sky. "They must have shut down all the cell towers in the area."

Jubilee blinked, nonplussed. "They can do that?"

Logan nodded. "Yeah, OZT still has a fair amount o' pull in the government. Means they've probably shut down the landlines, too." Turning, he headed back down the street the way they'd come, his stride fast. "C'mon. We're gonna need a runner."

"Wait, aren't we going to O-MOM?" she asked as she ran after him. She owed Dr. Reyes and her people everything. She couldn't just stand by and let OZT slaughter them.

Logan's expression was grim. "Not until we know we'll have reinforcements. You an' me ain't enough ta take on a group like that."

Jubilee was forced to agree. She followed Logan through a maze of streets, headed roughly away from the hospital. The abandoned buildings gave way to tall brick apartment buildings, their black iron fire escapes clinging to their sides like a strange variety of ivy. A group of boys chased a soccer ball, laughing and yelling at each other in a mix of Spanish and English.

To her surprise, Logan ducked inside one of the buildings. He took the stairs to the third floor two at a time, forcing Jubilee to run to keep up. The stairwell was poorly lit and smelled of stale sweat and cat urine, but if it bothered Logan he gave no sign.

"Let me do the talkin'," he told her as they made their way to a scratched metal door about halfway down the third floor hallway.

Jubilee just shrugged. "Sure thing." She had no idea what they were doing or how it would help Dr. Reyes's team, but she trusted Logan to know what he was doing.

Logan pounded on the door with his fist. After a few minutes, the door opened a crack to reveal a slice of a woman's face. She was middle aged and Hispanic and eyed Wolverine distrustfully.

Logan shifted back from the door, his hands held non-threateningly at his sides. "Pardon me, señora, but does Javier live here?"

The woman stared at him for a long moment, her expression strangely knowing, then shook her head. "No, señor. He lives in another building. My son can show you the way." She stepped back, unlatched the chain on the door and pulled it open. 

"Alejandro!" she yelled over her shoulder. "Ven aqui, hijo."

A young man about Jubilee's age came out of one of the other rooms of the apartment.

"These people are looking for Javier," his mother told him.

The young man looked the two of them over curiously as he approached and with a jerk of his head led them out into the hall.

"Outside," he said.

They followed him down the stairs and back out into the wintery afternoon.

Alejandro stopped and turned. "What's the message?" he asked in accentless English.

Logan chewed on his lip for a moment, obviously thinking. "Tell them the doctor at Our Mother of Mercy is in trouble," he said. His gaze narrowed, accentuating the wrinkles that framed his eyes. "A furious response would be appropriate."

If Alejandro thought it was a strange message he didn't let it show. He repeated Logan's words back to him and at the older man's approving nod, took off at a run down the street. A few seconds later he cut between a couple of buildings, disappearing from sight.

"How do you know he'll deliver the message?" Jubilee asked as Logan started off in the other direction, back toward O-MOM.

"He gets paid on the other end," he answered.

She trotted after him. "Yeah, but what if he decides to stop for some fries or something?" A new thought occurred to her. "Where is he going, anyway? How does he know how to find the X-Men?"

Logan stopped abruptly. "The message'll get through. I asked for Javier, so he knows it's a priority. The rest yer just gonna have ta trust me on." He gave her a shadowed look from beneath his brows and Jubilee felt a twinge deep in her heart. The X-Men couldn't afford to trust her with that kind of information in case OZT had a means of retrieving the data from her.

For a minute the fear threatened to overwhelm her, but she shook it off with determination. She was still herself regardless of how many sentinels components there were inside her. OZT didn't own her yet.

She straightened her shoulders, falling in step beside Logan. "Now what?"

He reached inside his jacket to finger the butt of the gun he carried in a shoulder holster. "Now we head to O-MOM. See if we can't keep the Doc an' her people alive until the cavalry arrives."


	53. Chapter 53

Chapter 53

"You know, we can't just go marching in the front door," Jubilee said as they approached the hospital.

They were still several blocks away, but evidence of the sentinels' passage was obvious. The street lay empty and silent around them. A couple of cars had been abandoned in their lanes as if the people in them had been unwilling to wait for traffic to clear before making their escape from the area.

As they passed a corner bodega, the shop owner peered suspiciously at them through the front glass while he locked his door. The store's display window sported several mannequin busts, one of which wore a t-shirt made to look like the X-Men's new black and red uniforms. Several other bits of themed paraphernalia was scattered at the base of the mannequin, including a futuristic-looking water gun and several pairs of earrings. The other mannequin wore a funky white wig and a purple t-shirt, and Jubilee had to suppress a shiver. The idea that people would support the sentinels to the point of imitating them chilled her.

Logan nodded in response to her comment. "Not as X-Men we can't."

Jubilee dragged her attention back to the conversation. "What do you mean?"

Logan shrugged. "When we get a little closer, I want you to find out how they're distributing their force inside the hospital. My guess is that they'll use a mix of sentinels and enforcers ta cover the entrances an' maybe the elevators, and a smaller group'll go after the doc an' her people." He swept the empty street with his gaze then returned his attention to her.

"The first thing we're gonna need is better weapons, which means disarmin' a couple o' the enforcers. If we go rushin' in like a couple o' folks who've been in a car wreck or somethin', we can probably get close enough." He shrugged again. "Assumin' we can find an entrance that ain't covered by a sentinel. I don't think we can fool them."

Jubilee stopped short at the thought that popped into her brain. Spinning about on her heel, she grabbed Logan's elbow and dragged him determinedly back down the sidewalk in the direction they'd come. "Come on, dude, I've got an idea," she told him.

Logan looked at her askance but offered only a token resistance to her pull. "What kind of idea?"

She flashed a grim smile. "A way to fool the sentinels, too."

x-x-x-x

"This ain't an idea," Logan growled as they walked straight toward the emergency room entrance. "It's a scene from _Star Wars_." His wrists were bound in front of him in a pair of cheap plastic handcuffs painted a metallic silver.

Beside him, Jubilee just shrugged. "Hey, it worked for Luke and Han Solo, didn't it?"

Logan gave her a dirty look from under his eyebrows. "That depends on yer definition of success."

Jubilee reached up to scratch her scalp. The white wig she wore over her short hair itched horrendously. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass doors as they approached. The purple t-shirt was a poor imitation of the sentinels' uniform, but combined with the distinctive white hair and the fact that she could talk to them, she figured it was good enough.

She consulted her mental map. She'd brought up the schematic of the hospital and now watched as the dots representing the sentinels moved around inside it. The humanoid and CAT types registered as different colors. She couldn't sense the sentinels in the further portions of the hospital, but she had a total of fourteen on her radar, their positions widely scattered.

After a moment, she turned her attention to the area of the hospital closest to them. "Okay, the sentinel is still just inside the doors, right side. No CATs in the area."

"Got it," Logan answered, his gaze fixed on the slice of the hospital visible through the doors.

An ambulance sat in the U-shaped breezeway that granted direct access to the emergency room, partially blocking their view. The paramedics were nowhere in sight. The ambulance sat silent and still with its back doors hanging open. The entire scene gave off a sense of wrongness, which Jubilee would have had to have been an idiot not to notice.

Nervousness gripped her. She rubbed her palms together then self-consciously dropped her hands to her sides when Logan noticed. A sentinel wouldn't have mannerisms.

She cut her gaze toward Logan, needing to do something to relieve her growing tension. "Remember, when we get inside, let me do all the talking," she said.

Logan rolled his eyes. "Don't worry, I do a mean Wookie imitation."

Jubilee actually laughed.

Her humor died away as they skirted the ambulance and approached the glass doors.

"Well, here goes," she muttered.

Taking a deep breath, she grabbed Logan's arm and hauled him along beside her as she shoved open the swinging doors.

The first thing that struck her was the stillness. People filled the waiting room, some obviously injured, but there was very little noise. A few nurses moved between the rows of chairs, their pink scrubs jarringly cheerful. The human sentinel stood off to the side of the door where it could see the entire room. It had extended the laser cannons embedded in its upper arms. The slender metal cylinders were streaked with its blood, as were the specially designed sleeves of its uniform. It held its arms down at its sides, but she knew how quickly it could raise them to fire.

An enforcer in OZT body armor loitered by the nurse's station that divided the waiting area from the treatment rooms beyond. He carried a laser rifle in both hands, nose pointed casually toward the floor. The body of a man in a security guard's uniform lay on the floor a little ways beyond him, surrounded by a pool of blood, and Jubilee didn't need any further explanation for the frightened atmosphere.

Logan made a small, pleased noise in the back of his throat when he noted the enforcer's weapon. They'd had no way of knowing where the human enforcers were, but they needed one to make this plan work.

Jubilee did her best to school her face to expressionlessness as she dragged Logan forward. He did a credible job of resisting without actually pitting his strength against her, which would have given them away for sure. A sentinel would have been more than strong enough to contain even Wolverine.

She sent a standard greeting to the sentinel, which, thankfully, was not the one she'd communicated with on the street, but approached the enforcer instead.

The man straightened, looking her over curiously. "What've you got there?" he asked.

_Prisoner transfer from cell block 1138_, Jubilee promptly thought.

"This mutant is a priority target," she said instead, trying to keep her voice flat. "Requesting assistance to hold him for retrieval."

The enforcer gave her an odd look. "Now? We're in the middle of an op here."

Jubilee wanted to panic. He wasn't buying it. "This mutant is a priority target," she repeated dully. "Requesting assistance to hold him for retrieval."

The enforcer shook his head. "All right, all right. I'll have to call it in." Lowering his weapon to his side, he raised his other hand toward the communicator controls attached to his collar. "I swear, you metal-heads are all dumb as posts."

The minute the man relaxed his hold on the laser rifle, Logan flexed his arms, snapping the plastic links joining the two halves of his handcuffs. He swung his fist toward the enforcer's chin. At the last moment he extended his claws, spearing the man through the throat. Jubilee grabbed the laser rifle, shoving its nose out of line with her body as she wrestled it out of the enforcer's grip.

Quickly, Logan retracted his claws. He took the rifle from Jubilee's hands and spun toward the sentinel. Behind him blood poured out of the enforcer's throat, splattering everywhere. The man sagged against the nurse's station counter, his mouth moving silently.

Logan fired a short burst, catching the sentinel with its arms half-raised. It collapsed backward, a thin trail of smoke rising from its ruined head. The dot on Jubilee's mental schematic abruptly winked out.

For a moment, no one moved. Logan lowered the weapon and looked around the waiting room.

"Get out while ya can, folks," he said, raising his voice to carry. "It won't be long 'til someone comes ta find out what happened ta these two."

As if his words broke some kind of spell, people suddenly came to life in their seats. With surprisingly little commotion, they got up in ones and twos and headed for the door, disappearing quickly from sight. Most of the medical staff, though, stayed behind.

A tiny murmur from the vicinity of the enforcer's still form caught Jubilee's attention. Logan looked down at the same time, obviously searching for the source of the sound. Muttering to himself, he knelt and retrieved a small earbud from the enforcer's ear then held it up where both he and Jubilee could hear the tiny voice emanating from it.

"Porter, come in. We've just lost all contact with your sentinel. What's your situation there?" A pause. "Porter, where are you?"

Logan shook his head as he reached for the microphone toggle on the enforcer's uniform.

"Porter here," he said. "Something's wrong with the sentinel. It's not moving."

The voice on the other end cussed soundly and imaginatively. "These things break down more often than my granny's old Malibu. All right. If I can get one of those freakin' kitty cats to answer, I'll send 'em your way."

"Roger that," Logan answered. "Porter out." He tossed the earbud down on top of Porter's still form.

Jubilee gave him a bright smile. "You did that much better than Han Solo." With a tug she removed the uncomfortable white wig and dropped it next to the enforcer.

His only response was a snort. "Let's move," he told her. "That's only gonna hold 'em off for so long."

Jubilee nodded and together they headed deeper into the hospital. Logan took the lead, the laser rifle cradled in his arms. He kept the nose pointed downward, though. The hospital remained full of people.

"How close are they to finding the Doc?" Logan asked.

Jubilee consulted her internal map. She couldn't see the basement where Dr. Reyes and her crew worked. It was too far away, on the back side of the hospital. But the pattern of the visible sentinels' movement suggested that the focus of their search was upward rather than down.

"Not too close," she finally said. A small cluster of dots in what the hospital schematic labeled as the administrator's office worried her, though. "I think they might be trying to get the location out of the hospital administrator." Having experienced OZT's interrogation techniques firsthand, Jubilee had no doubt the hospital staff would give Dr. Reyes and her people up.

"Okay. Anybody between us and the nearest elevators?"

Jubilee consulted her map again and shook her head.

Logan made an approving noise. "Then let's see if we can get to the Doc before anybody realizes we're here."

x-x-x-x

"Oh, this is really bad." The words popped out of Jubilee's mouth before she could catch them. On her inner map, half of the sentinels had just turned and started moving purposefully toward the elevators and stairwells.

Dr. Reyes turned to look at her in alarm. Clustered behind her, the other members of the team's expressions ranged from frightened to outright panicked.

"What is it, Jubes?" Logan growled. He walked several paces ahead, rifle held ready as they made their way through the dank underground halls.

"Sentinels are one their way down."

He didn't pause. "How many?"

"Lots." She did a quick count, her stomach lurching. "All of the CATs, plus about half of the others."

He stopped abruptly and waved them back. "Change of plan, folks. I was hopin' ta sneak everybody out while they were still lookin' fer us upstairs, but we just ran outta time."

He looked over his shoulder at Dr. Reyes. "Doc, where's that safe room you mentioned last time I was here?"

The doctor pivoted smartly on her heel. "This way." She motioned them to follow as she strode down the hall, her white lab coat flapping behind her.

Jubilee didn't pay attention to their route. She was too busy watching the flurry of activity on her map. Logan steered her with a hand under her elbow, occasionally jerking her off balance as he maneuvered her around corners.

"They've reached our level," Jubilee reported. "Two CATs at the north elevator, one at the south elevator with two human sentinels. The rest are coming down the stairwells." Already the ones that had emerged from the elevators were moving in their direction, and Jubilee imagined she could hear the distant scrabble of metal claws on the flooring as the CATs loped toward her.

Ahead of the group, Dr. Reyes and two of her team were muscling open a thick metal door at the end of the hallway. The hinges made an awful grinding noise that echoed through the basement. The sentinels were bound to hear it, and her stomach clenched at the thought.

"Everybody inside," Logan barked, gesturing people forward with his rifle. "_Move_. We're almost out of time."

The scientists did as he instructed, crowding forward into the dark bunker. Someone found the light switch and turned on a set of overhead fluorescent lights.

Jubilee and Logan were last. They backed inside, Logan keeping his rifle trained on the visible slice of empty hallway as Louis and another man swung the heavy door shut.

The first of the CATs turned the corner just as the door closed. Jubilee only had a moment's look at the feline face with its protruding fangs and glowing eyes before the metal door slammed shut. Logan jumped forward to help turn the levers that slid the heavy steel bolts into place, sealing them in.

Jubilee stared at the door, heart pounding. She felt the CAT make contact, its standard ID string greeting flashing in front of her eyes like a strobe.

_Sentinel, you are malfunctioning,_ it said inside her mind. It wasn't an actual voice forming words, but that was how her mind tried to interpret the string of information she received. _Initiate shut down sequence per maintenance directive 604.55 revision B._

Jubilee bit her lip. That had sounded very much like a command, and it made something inside her head prickle.

_No_, she told it.

It paused to process her refusal. _Refusal to comply will result in your destruction,_ it told her when it had completed that task. _Initiate shut down sequence per maintenance directive 604.55 revision B._

_No_, Jubilee repeated.

Through the door, she heard the CAT's claws scraping on the linoleum as it paced back and forth. A trio of additional CATs had arrived, taking up stationary positions in the hallway.

Without warning a high-pitched squeal like the screech of a microphone's feedback stabbed into Jubilee's brain. She grabbed her head with a cry of pain, but as quickly as it had come the pain disappeared, replaced by a hissing emptiness. The dots on her map winked out.

"Jubilee!" Both Logan and Dr. Reyes reached for her, their expressions alarmed, but she shook them off.

"I'm okay." Cautiously she sent a new greeting to the CAT outside the door, only to have it rebound, unable to reach its target. Then she tried pulling up a map of the New York area, but without success.

She turned to Logan, fear trickling into her stomach like ice water. "I think they're jamming me. I can't see anything out there any more."

He shot her an indecipherable look.

"Now what?" Dr. Reyes asked, her voice breathless.

Logan shrugged, resuming his position in front of the door with the rifle held ready. "Now we wait for the cavalry ta arrive."

_And hope it gets here in time_, Jubilee added silently. A loud series of booms punctuated her thought, echoing through their cement and steel bunker like a roll of thunder. People cried out in alarm and clapped their hands over their ears.

"What was that?" Allie demanded as the sound died away, her eyes full of fear. She stood a half-step behind Dr. Reyes and peered out around the taller woman's form.

Logan's posture didn't change. "They're shootin' at the door," he answered.

"Are they going to be able to break it down?" Dr. Reyes stared at Logan in horror.

His fingers flexed on the rifle grips. "Eventually." He glanced toward the frightened scientists. "It's gonna take 'em a while, though. No sense panicking yet."

They didn't look particularly reassured, but Jubilee couldn't blame them.

Another set of hollow booms echoed through the room, making people flinch. An impact followed. Something heavy slammed into the door, denting it and making the floor beneath their feet vibrate. A harsh screech of metal followed and Jubilee's skin crawled at the sound.

"What are they doing?" she asked Logan out of the side of her mouth. She didn't want the others to hear in case the answer turned out to be really bad.

"CATs 're tryin' ta break through by brute force," he answered in the same low tone. "They've figured out their lasers ain't gonna do much." Another crash made the door shudder and added a second convex dent to the smooth surface.

Suddenly the silence in Jubilee's head disappeared. The sentinels' dots reappeared on her mental map of the hospital, winking on like a string of Christmas lights. A cluster of the human variety had arrived and now stood beyond the CATs.

The lead CAT re-established contact. But instead of sending its own ID string, it sent something different. The coded initiation stabbed into her mind with the force of a raging storm. It shrieked and growled and hissed, flaying her thoughts as if a thousand shards of glass were born on the fierce winds. She tried to scream, but her mouth wouldn't obey her.

_Wolverine!_ She tried to turn to him, to call for help, to warn him… anything. It was like her body no longer belonged to her. Before she understood what was happening, she'd walked to the door and reached out to grasp the lever that controlled the security bolts.

"Jubilee, what are you doing?" She heard Logan's voice behind her. "Get back!"

_Wolverine, help me!_ She thought desperately as her hand tightened on the lever. A strange, tingling burn filled the muscles of her shoulders and arms. She could almost feel the nannites swarming through them, changing them. Changing her. Sudden strength infused her, and with a simple twist she threw the lever. The bolts shot back.

She glanced over her shoulder to see Logan raising the laser rifle to his shoulder, its nose pointed in her direction. His expression was sick with horror, his blue eyes wide.

She realized then that Wolverine couldn't help her—couldn't save her. In just a couple of seconds he would kill her because he had no choice. She was going to open the door. Then Logan would kill her, and the sentinels would kill him along with Dr. Reyes and her team.

_I can't let that happen._ She didn't know how she would stop it, but she had to. Digging deep inside herself, she reached for anything that might help her resist. She had to fight. She had to stop the sentinels. Let them kill her. If nothing else, she had to do that much for Logan. She had to.

Something came apart inside her mind. Searing pain filled her arms—deep, in the bone. She felt her muscles tear as two objects forced their way up through the flesh of her arms. She would have screamed if she could. She heard fabric rip and the warm rush of blood running across her skin.

Information flashed to life behind her eyes. A targeting iris appeared, hanging out in front of her like a mirage sketched in shades of red and orange. It moved wherever she looked, acquiring target-lock as quickly as she could form the thought.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Logan hesitate. Her hands continued to perform the actions they had been commanded to. She couldn't stop them.

With a hard yank, she pulled the door open. Two CATs stood in the middle of the hallway, shoulder canons aimed squarely at the doorway. One of them sent her a command to move out of the way.

Instead, Jubilee opened fire. She caught the lead CAT squarely in head, her laser bolt drilling through the delicate electronics filling its skull. Her connection to it abruptly cut out, releasing her from whatever outside force had been controlling her.

The second CAT oriented on her, while at the same time one of the human sentinels sent her a request to establish a new connection. Jubilee refused, gritting her teeth as she fought the programmed instinct to reply.

Her targeting iris glowed like molten metal as she centered on the second CAT, but before she could fire on it, laser bolts speared past her to impale it in the head and chest. It staggered and then the joints of its legs simply folded. It sank to the ground on its belly in remarkably cat-like fashion, its body trailing thin gray smoke.

Logan grabbed Jubilee by the collar of her shirt and dragged her backward, then planted his shoulder in the door to shove it closed. Dr. Reyes jumped forward to help him. They shot the bolts once again.

Silence descended on the bunker. Dr. Reyes leaned against the door, shoulders shaking as she breathed.

Logan turned to face Jubilee. He half-raised his rifle before seeming to think better of the idea.

"What did ya think you were doin'?" he demanded angrily. "Ya coulda gotten us all killed!"

It was just too much. Jubilee burst into tears. She barely registered the change as her weapon systems went into stand-by mode. The narrow barrels of her laser canons retracted into her arms, and an unpleasant tingle told her when the nannites went to work resealing the flesh around them.

"Aw, don't cry." Looking alarmed, Logan let the rifle fall to his side and gathered her into an awkward hug with his free arm.

Jubilee clung to him. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she chanted into his shoulder.

Logan's grip on her tightened. "Just don't do it again, 'kay?"

She nodded emphatically, even though she had no idea if she could keep such a promise. One of the sentinels outside sent another request to initiate contact and with a shudder she refused once again.

"What's happening to me, Logan?"

He pulled back far enough to look into her face. His eyes were serious and shadowed. "I wish I knew, honey." He gave a helpless little shrug. "I wish I knew."

Dr. Reyes approached them. "Let me see your arm," she told Jubilee, her expression full of professional compassion.

Jubilee complied, watching the doctor as she examined the long, raw wound. Blood continued to well from it, trickling down her arm in dark rivulets. Outside, another impact shook the door and made them all jump. Claws scrabbled against the bottom of the door.

In unspoken accord they backed away. Releasing her, Logan took several steps to the side and once again cradled the laser rifle in both hands, ready to raise it in an instant.

Jubilee wiped her eyes with one bloodied sleeve and then took up a position opposite Logan. She left her weapons system on stand-by, but she knew how to bring the canons online if she needed to.

Then there was nothing left to do but wait.

x-x-x-x

By the time help arrived, the sentinels had been at the door for nearly thirty minutes. With a combination of laser fire and claws, they'd managed to mangle one edge, opening a small gap through which the two groups exchanged sporadic bouts of fire.

Outside there was a sudden explosion that shook the bunker and made the lights flicker, followed by shouts and the hiss and sizzle of laser fire. Through the gap, Jubilee caught a glimpse of the soldiers that poured into the basement area. They took the few OZT enforcers and human sentinels down first, and, after a protracted battle, the CATs as well. She recognized the SHIELD emblems on their uniforms with a relief so keen she felt like her knees might buckle.

The soldiers went to work prying the damaged door open. They succeeded in opening it far enough for the team to clamber through, and Jubilee found herself unexpectedly facing Nick Fury.

Suddenly, the message Logan had sent to the X-Men made a lot more sense.

"'A furious response'?" she asked Logan, raising one eyebrow skeptically. "Nick Fury?"

He shrugged, looking sheepish. "I didn't exactly have time ta come up with somethin' subtle."

"Wolverine," Fury acknowledged Logan as the other man walked up to him. His gaze shifted to her. "Jubilee." He took note of the blood staining her shirt and the raw tears in her skin, his gaze narrowing. "Those look like sentinel canon tracks." His fingers flexed as if he were itching to draw his sidearm.

Jubilee shrugged uncomfortably. "Probably 'cause that's what they are, dude." The pain had already diminished to a dull throbbing. The nannites seemed to get faster at healing the more practice they had. She doubted it would be more than another couple of hours before they had completely repaired the damage to her arms.

Fury watched curiously as Dr. Reyes and her team members came out of the bunker. The doctor gave Fury a brief nod of acknowledgment then went to help the medics tend to several soldiers who had been wounded during the battle.

"Don't mind her," Logan told Fury as the colonel watched Dr. Reyes' retreating figure. "She ain't leadin' this group 'cause o' her social skills."

Colonel Fury shifted his attention to the rest of the team, looking them over. "I'm glad you managed to put them someplace safe," he said after a moment. "We got the message from Worthington just about the same time the first news reports were hitting the air."

Logan jerked his chin toward the ceiling. "So what's the damage?"

Fury frowned. "Minimal. The hospital administrator and a security guard working in the emergency room are dead, and there were a couple of stray fire incidents. One was a nurse, the other a patient."

"What about OZT?" Jubilee wanted to know.

Fury switched his attention to her. "Fourteen of the human enforcers are dead. The rest surrendered. One of the human sentinels escaped. We destroyed the remainder."

Louis joined them, stepping up beside Jubilee with a curious expression. "What do you do with OZT soldiers who surrender?"

Fury shrugged again. "For now, we're holding them." His gaze slid to Logan, a faint trace of a smile lighting his face. "We've got a new base of operations—has plenty of room." He expanded his attention to take in the rest of the group and raised his voice. "In fact, we'd like to take you all back with us. You can't stay here—it's obviously not safe any more. We would be able to provide you with both lab space and security."

A murmur of discussion started up among the team members as Jubilee stared suspiciously at Fury. "What about me?" Dr. Reyes and her people were the only one who knew enough about the sentinels to help her. Fury couldn't take them away from her.

Fury gave her a mild stare. "We would propose to take you there, too, Ms. Lee."

Logan gave voice to a low growl that said clearly how little he liked that idea. "Yer not lockin' her up in some government installation, buddy. She stays at Worthington Industries."

Dr. Reyes looked up from what she was doing, her gaze split between Logan and Colonel Fury. "We need to stay near Jubilee and our other contacts in the New York area."

"Meaning the X-Men." Fury crossed his arms.

Dr. Reyes watched him cooly. "Among others."

Fury only shrugged. "Don't worry, doctor. We'd only be moving you to Westchester." He glanced over at Logan, his expression oddly sly. "There's an underground complex out there that's been serving our needs admirably. Used to be a mansion sitting on top of it, but that got blown to pieces."

Logan stared at him for a long moment then barked a laugh. "Now that's irony."

Fury grinned at him. "I thought you'd appreciate that." He shifted his attention to Dr. Reyes. "Assuming the X-Men agree, we will provide you with access to whatever resources you need, including bringing Jubilee to you or you to her, whichever you prefer." He cocked his head. "It's the best offer you're going to get, Doc."

Dr. Reyes rose slowly to her feet. Her expression remained wary as she looked back and forth between Colonel Fury, Logan and Jubilee. "Just so you understand, we don't work for the government."

Fury inclined his head in a gesture reminiscent of a bow. "Right now, ma'am, neither do we."

x-x-x-x

Rogue sat quietly at the Club's bar, a nearly-empty glass of merlot before her. Yosa, the scarred barman, came by, setting a fresh glass down and taking the old away.

"Thank you, Yosa," she told his retreating form.

The barman turned his head briefly and nodded, as much acknowledgment as he had ever given her or anyone else that she'd seen.

Picking up her glass, she stared into the mirror behind the bar. The Club had closed for the night some time earlier. Now, a few remaining people wandered between the tables, straightening up. Distantly, she could hear voices and the clatter of dishes from the kitchen.

She took a sip of her wine. Remy sat at a table near the center of the café area with a small group of senior thieves. From the relaxed atmosphere at the table she gathered they were simply shooting the breeze rather than discussing business, and she wondered if Remy thought he was going to be able to wait her out.

She rarely stayed at the Club until closing. Too many of her duties involved the families of the Clans, which meant she needed to be up and about when they were. But tonight she was willing to wait however long she had to for a chance to talk to her husband. The stilted, uncomfortable distance between them had gone on far too long and their schedules were such that it had turned out to be ridiculously easy to avoid spending any meaningful time together at all.

Sighing, she rolled her neck, digging her fingers into the tight, tired muscles along her spine. She'd spent much of the evening babysitting one of the CIA's brightest rising stars, who was now being introduced to the existence of the American Guilds. The high mucky-muck who'd brought him, whose title was something like Assistant Deputy Director of the National Clandestine Service, spent some time talking with Remy and then had gone on to make the rounds through the Guild's upper echelon, either introducing himself or renewing acquaintances, leaving his protégé in her care.

Talking with the young agent had given Rogue new insight into how the Guild safeguarded its survival. Traditional theft—the taking of items of intrinsic value like gold, currency or art—was a remarkably small portion of the Guild's activity and, she'd come to understand, not very highly regarded. Such work was generally left to the younger thieves as a place to practice their skills. Some regard was given to the procuring of a specific item for a specific client, and even more so if the item in question was something of renown. But the Guild's real talent lay in the stealing of information, and in that arena they had no equal.

The world's various intelligence agencies had long since realized how valuable Guild cooperation could be to them. Rogue had been a little surprised to realize just how involved the Guild as a whole was in the spy business. But in a way it made sense. The Guild filled a specific, highly-specialized niche inside government intelligence operations, allowing the various agencies to concentrate their resources in other areas. In return, the Guild enjoyed unofficial immunity from prosecution as a criminal enterprise, and to a lesser degree as individuals.

The knowledge eased one of her private worries. Between his rank and his position as Guildmaster, Remy's chances of going to prison were fairly slim. She wondered absently if a prison existed that could actually hold him. The thought made her smile. Not for very long, she suspected, but becoming an escaped convict would no doubt make his life a lot more complicated.

She snorted to herself. And Remy needed more complications in his life like he needed a hole in the head.

The group at the table began to disperse. She waited patiently as they finished drinks and gathered up discarded jackets, the slow progression of friends taking their leave, until only Remy remained at the table.

Picking up her glass, Rogue slipped off the stool and crossed the room, her heels clicking lightly on the Italian slate tiles. Remy looked up briefly as she seated herself in the chair next to his, his expression neutral.

She internalized a sigh. She could see the blank wall behind his eyes—the hard, defensive shell that hid his real thoughts and feelings from sight. For the past few days—ever since she'd started trying to talk to him again—she'd gotten the same flat response. He wasn't rude or nasty… or even disinterested. If she asked a question he would answer it, and with only a little effort she could get him to hold a conversation with her. But the shields in his eyes remained locked in place.

She cast around for something to say. "So, what did the Agency want? Or were they just makin' a social call?"

Remy shrugged. "Like everybody else, chere, dey tryin' t' figure out what de changes here mean t' them."

Rogue considered the implications of his words. "Does a change in Guild leadership automatically mean all the agreements are up for renegotiation?" she finally asked. "That doesn't seem like it would be very good for business."

Remy shook his head, traces of disgust in his expression. "Non. T'ings usually aren't dis chaotic." His lips thinned. "Michael went a long way toward wreckin' dis guild. Even wit'out OZT in de mix, dis wouldn't have been a smooth hand off."

"How so?"

He gave her an aggrieved look. "Y' wouldn' _believe_ de mess Michael made—promotin' powers over skill an' playin' favorites wit' those dat agreed wit' his policies." He paused to take a sip from his drink. "I'm finally gettin' a chance t' evaluate de current class of apprentices, an' I'm beginnin' t' t'ink I'm jus' gon' have t' start dem over. Some o' de t'ieves, too. Don' know if de trainin' was dat bad or if they jus' picked up bad habits. Bobby's better than t'ieves here wit' three times his experience."

He made an abortive gesture as if acknowledging that he'd gotten away from her original question. "Anyway, f' a long time New York has been one o' de premier Guilds in terms o' talent, but under Michael it was startin' t' get a reputation f' bein' sloppy, so everyone dat's got an interest is makin' time t' come by an' see if it looks like t'ings are gon' change."

She picked up her glass, swirling the dark wine. "Have ya been able ta convince them?"

He frowned. "So far."

She cocked her head to the side. "Seems like that must say an' awful lot about your reputation, sugah."

His eyebrows hiked upward in surprise and she reflected glumly that he wasn't used to hearing compliments from her, particularly about his profession.

His expression morphed into one of mild suspicion. "Y' tryin' t' butter me up f' somet'ing, chere?" His tone held a faint, teasing note as if he was offering her the chance to turn it all into a big joke.

Obscurely hurt, Rogue shook her head and very carefully set her wine glass down. "Ah was just makin' an observation," she told him quietly. She felt brittle all of a sudden, as if at any moment something inside her was going to shatter.

Regret flickered in his eyes. He pressed his lips together in a thin line and looked away.

Hesitantly, Rogue reached over to lay her hand on his. Remy glanced at her, his expression shadowed, but after a moment he threaded his fingers through hers.

"It's late, chere. Let's go t' bed."

She nodded acquiescence. Remy pushed his chair back and rose, drawing her to her feet beside him.

They walked in silence through the stone halls. Rogue kept hold of his hand, needing that reassurance to keep her fears from surging to the fore. She'd waited for him tonight because she wanted to take the first steps toward closing the gap between them, not to let her fears out to stretch their legs.

Remy led her into the office without bothering to reach for the light switch. The door closed behind them, cutting off the light from the hall, and in the absolute blackness Rogue found herself instinctively sidling closer to him, afraid of what she might accidentally trip over.

"Y' okay, chere?" he asked, releasing her hand to instead wrap an arm around her waist.

The sudden concern in his voice warmed her from the inside out. She laughed a little. "Yeah, it's just dark in here is all."

He stopped short. Tucked up against his side, she could feel him turning to look around. Phantom spots danced in front of her eyes, her brain's attempt to make sense of the emptiness.

"I… don' even t'ink about it anymore," Remy said after a moment. "How often have I dragged y' through de dark wit'out realizin' it?"

Rogue paused, considering her response carefully. It had been an innocent question, she was certain, but the double meaning couldn't be missed. She felt him tense as he, too, realized what a loaded question he'd asked.

"A few times," she finally answered. "But ah know as long as ah stick close, ah'll be fine. Ya always know where ya goin'."

His arm tightened, and she found herself suddenly drawn into a hug. The tight knot in her chest loosened a notch as she wrapped her arms around him and laid her cheek against his lapel. His breath tickled her hair.

"I'm sorry I scared y'," he said, and she knew he was talking about more than just the lack of lights.

Rogue sighed. "Ah know ya are." She wished she could burrow closer to him. The fine silk of his tuxedo jacket felt slick and cool beneath her cheek. "That wasn't ever the issue, really."

He didn't say anything, so she forced herself to say the words that hovered on her tongue.

"It _hurt,_ Remy." She bit her lip as the memories rolled over her. "It really, really hurt that ya didn't think ya could trust any of us with the information about how ya blood works." She pulled back a half step, blinking hard against the threat of tears. "Ah can see why ya might not be ready ta trust me—mah track record ain't been all that great—but not Hank? Not _Bobby_?"

His grip tightened on her, and she drew a shaky breath. "Ah guess it just made me wonder if there was any point in tryin', ya know? If ya can't bring yaself ta trust _them_…" She scrubbed her eyes with the heel of one hand. "Ah mean, Hank's a doctor. He takes privilege seriously. An' Bobby—Bobby loves ya, sugah. He'd step in front of a bus if ya needed him to." She ran out of words abruptly, her throat squeezing too tight for anything else to escape.

He still didn't say anything, and in the darkness she had no idea what kind of expression might be on his face. After a little bit, he took her hand again and drew her toward the far side of the office where the door to their apartment waited.

He flicked on the light. Rogue blinked at the blinding illumination as their bedroom suddenly appeared around her. Remy walked ahead of her into the room but then stopped after a few paces with his back to her. His fingers flexed rhythmically at his sides, testament to some inner struggle.

Not knowing what else to do, she followed him inside and closed the door. _Give him time ta answer_, she instructed herself firmly when the silence threatened to become overwhelming.

Finally, Remy turned his head just far enough to look at her. In profile, his face seemed to be made solely of straight lines and sharp angles and his eyes burned with emotions she couldn't identify.

"Do y' want t' know how I discovered what m' blood could do?" he asked, his tone challenging, and Rogue sucked in her breath at the tacit warning in his voice.

Fear coiling in her stomach, she nodded. "Tell me."

He didn't say anything immediately. Instead, he moved to the bed and sank down on its edge, bracing his elbows on his knees. Rogue followed, settling beside him and tucking her fingers beneath her thighs.

Remy rubbed his palms together in slow circles. "I was… nine, I guess." He stared blankly at the floor and Rogue knew he was watching his memories. "There was a group of us dat ended up squattin' in dis old building f' a while. It was pretty good, 'til T Paul went an' pissed off one o' de local gangs."

"T Paul?" Rogue asked.

Remy shrugged. "He was de oldest. T'irteen, fourteen, maybe." His expression tightened. "He took care of us. There was always somet'ing t' eat an' money f' de clinic if a body got bad sick."

Rogue had to listen closely to understand him as his speech degraded into the thick patois of his childhood. Remy didn't seem to notice.

"He never wanted any o' us t' know where he got it, but I used t' follow him down t' de avenue. Every so often he'd get into one o' de cars an' when he got back, he had money."

Rogue was pretty certain she knew what T Paul had been doing when he got into those cars. She'd never had any significant exposure to the sex trade—Mystique had showed nothing but disdain for anyone who sold themselves for a man's use—but she could guess.

Remy made a small, helpless gesture. "Mais, T Paul got himself cross wit' dat gang, like I said. So one day a couple o' dem came into our place an' started shootin'." His hands closed into fists, and Rogue resisted the urge to reach for him. She had no idea how he would react.

Remy's blank gaze remained fixed on the carpet. "I was lucky. I got away." Slowly his hands unclenched. "But after dat I was on m' own. I figured I could maybe get by pickin' pockets—" He glanced over at her, faint amusement in his eyes. "I've always had light fingers." He looked away. "But de ones runnin' dat game weren't interested in makin' room f' anot'er body in their territory. So I started goin' down t' de avenue."

Rogue's breath caught and her stomach squeezed into a hard little knot.

Remy looked over at her again. "For true, I never had any intention o' turnin' tricks. But it was easy 'nough t' get de johns t' stop f' me, an' as soon as they'd done taken off their pants I had de wallet an' was gone out de window." He shrugged. "F' a while, t'ings were good again."

He fell silent and for several minutes said nothing else. Rogue bit her lip and held her peace. Wherever this was going she knew it couldn't be good, and she was afraid to say or do anything that might shatter the moment of unprecedented openness.

Eventually, Remy stirred. "Y' never can tell about people," he said, his tone reflective. "I didn' always get away clean. Sometimes de johns would catch me, but they were usually so terrified o' someone findin' out their dirty little secret dat it wasn' too hard t' negotiate m' way out of it. Lot o' dem were well-t'-do, respectable types—lawyers, bankers an' such."

Rogue watched as his face drew into itself, the lines of pain around his eyes adding years to his appearance.

"There was dis one. He was a surgeon. Tol' me all about how he cut people's hearts out o' them an' gave them new ones—saved their lives—like I was supposed t' be impressed he could do dat." He swallowed hard. "He caught me. Had de strongest hands…"

Remy stared down at his own hands, his gaze empty. "Mais, I tried m' usual bluster, which he didn' go for. So then I threatened t' go t' de cops. Dat was a mistake." His voice went flat.

"Like I said, y' never can tell 'bout people. Dat one, he had a monster inside him. Flew into a rage an' tol' me I was gon' regret threatenin' him." He narrowed his eyes and turned his head a fraction as if he were shying away from the scene only he could see. "He… took what he was plannin' t' pay for an' more, an' then he beat me bloody wit' his belt." His expression turned caustic. "He didn' want t' risk damagin' his hands."

Rogue found she could hardly breathe. She felt cold all the way through, and so angry that anyone could have hurt him that way that she was shaking. Remy didn't appear to notice as he went on.

"When he was done, he went an' got a needle an' a bag o' tar out o' his briefcase. 'Parently he had a heroine habit. At first I jus' t'ought he was gon' get high—his t'ing f'… after. Figured I could leave once he mellowed. But then he started explainin' how nobody was gon' care 'bout another piece o' gutter trash dead of an overdose." He shook his head. "I didn' even try t' run… jus' watched him put it in m' arm."

Rogue swallowed a couple of times to make sure she had control of her voice. "What happened?" she asked quietly.

Remy didn't look at her. "He left, an' I waited t' die. But de _rush_—" He raised his eyebrows expressively. "At dat point I really didn' care." He shrugged. "After a little bit m' blood started t' glow. There was enough of it leakin' out o' me dat I saw it. An' it… tingled, like. All over. I t'ought I was hallucinatin', but a couple o' seconds later I came slammin' back down t' Earth. Eventually I decided I wasn' gon' die after all."

His voice fell away. He didn't move, as if his memories still held him in thrall. Rogue felt just as immobilized. So many things were tumbling through her mind that she didn't know where to begin.

"What are y' t'inkin'?" he asked suddenly.

"Ah'm thinkin' if ah evah meet that man ah'm gonna tear him apart with mah bare hands," she answered fiercely before she could stop herself.

Remy straightened and turned to look at her. His eyes were full of shadows, like old scars.

Rogue couldn't stand it. She scooted closer to him and wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face against his shoulder. After a short pause his arms closed around her, surrounding her in warmth.

"Y' mad at me f' not trustin' y'," he said, his voice quiet.

She tightened her grip. "Ah'm not mad," she assured him. Her eyes burned. "Ah'm not mad."

With a snort, he reached up and gently disengaged her arms from around his neck. He kept hold of her hands, but regret filled his expression as he brought their twined fingers to rest lightly on his thigh.

"Y' mad," he repeated firmly. After a moment he lowered his gaze. His thumb brushed across hers, sending little shivers up her arm. "Y' reason's sound enough. I jus'…" He looked up at her, his gaze piercing, and then away. "I don' t'ink I can change it." His tone hardened. "No offense t' Hank, but I don' do well wit' hospitals o' doctors. I know it's irrational. It don' matter."

Rogue didn't argue. She understood irrational fear all too well. He probably couldn't set foot in a hospital without expecting, on some unconscious level, to run into that surgeon again.

"An' Bobby?" she asked quietly.

Remy gave her a thin, strained smile. "He's prob'ly de closest friend I've ever had. More than dat. He's family." He shrugged. "But I made de mistake o' trustin' family once. I can' afford t' do dat again."

The words went into her like a knife. She wanted to crumple into a little ball around the pain because she knew that if he wasn't willing to trust Bobby, there was little hope for her, either.

Mustering her courage, she pushed the hurt away.

"Ah never thought ah'd be able ta let a man touch me," she told him. She shrugged. "Not without screamin' in terror, anyway."

He looked up, traces of surprise in his expression.

Rogue gave him a crooked little smile. "Ya were always patient with me. Even after ah married ya an' ya had every right in the world ta make demands, ya let me work through it in mah own time."

He looked like he wasn't quite certain how to take her comment. "Wouldn' have been right," he finally said.

She nodded. "An' ah can't even tell ya how much ah love ya foh that." She looked down at their joined hands then forced herself to meet his eyes once again. "What ah'm sayin' is that ah _really_ want ya ta feel like ya can trust me, but ah understand that ya have ta work through it in yoh own time."

She saw the impact of her words in his eyes, a wary, sick relief that left her both saddened and resolute.

_Ya already knew there were no fairytale endings_, she reminded herself. That didn't mean there wasn't happiness to be found in the real world. This might very well be the most intimate thing Remy had ever told anyone. It meant a lot to her.

She squeezed his hands and released them, then stood. Moving to stand in front of him, she reached for his bowtie and quietly undid it. The silk whispered softly as she pulled it free. Remy made room for her between his legs and put his hands on her hips. Her stomach fluttered in anticipation. She hadn't realized until now just how badly she wanted to be close to him again.

Tossing his tie aside, she moved on to his shirt buttons. His fingers tightened, drawing her toward him and without hesitation, Rogue went.

Tonight it was enough.


	54. Chapter 54

Chapter 54

"An unexpected turn in the Worthington law suit against Draxar Incorporated sparked violence today as anti-mutant and anti-OZT groups clashed on the steps of the courthouse."

The statement from the television was enough to kill all conversation in the Guildmaster's office. Rogue paused mid-sentence and turned toward the TV. The screen was filled with disjointed scenes of protestors screaming at each other across a ragged line of police officers in riot gear who were vainly trying to keep the groups separate. People on both sides of the line could be seen throwing bottles and other projectiles, along with punches. Rogue recognized the Friends of Humanity logo on several signs carried by the crowd, as well as the X-Men's symbol done in the now-common red and black.

"You notice they're not calling anyone pro-mutant," Mystique commented. "Just anti-OZT."

Beside her, Logan shrugged. "Don't knock it. A month ago they wouldn't have reported it at all." He looked over at Rogue, faint amusement in his eyes. "Trish Tilby ain't my favorite person, but ya gotta give her credit fer takin' on the entire journalistic establishment along with OZT." He nodded toward the TV. "The news organizations know they'll lose whatever credibility they have left if they don't start reportin' the truth again."

On Mystique's far side, Bishop shook his head. "What does it matter what the news reports if the government won't act?" His expression was tight, his dark eyes haunted. It was an expression Rogue had grown used to seeing. "Journalists have no power."

The last member of their group, Marcus Black, chuckled lightly. "Maybe where you come from."

Before Bishop could respond, the scene on the television cut away to the news studio.

The face of a vaguely familiar-looking news anchor filled the screen. "Less than an hour ago, the District Attorney for New York County announced his intention to file larceny charges against several executive officers of Draxar Incorporated," he said. "Draxar is one of the defendants in Worthington Industries' civil suit, along with the federal government, and is known to be closely associated with Operation: Zero Tolerance."

"Whoa." Rogue abandoned all thoughts of the fuel depot mission she and the others had been working on. "Larceny charges?" Excitement rose up inside her as she considered the implications. "That's a felony."

"No, really?" Marcus deadpanned, which elicited chuckles from both Logan and Mystique. Rogue rolled her eyes, the corners of her mouth turning upward in a smile. The thief no doubt knew the definition of larceny better than she did.

On the television, the anchor's face was replaced by a shot of Warren standing in front of a circle of reporters, all of whom had their microphones aimed expectantly at him. He was dressed in a double-breasted gray suit and had folded his wings such that they arched over his head, framing him in a halo of white feathers. His tie pin was a gold X inscribed in a circle.

"Warren Worthington, CEO of Worthington Industries, had this to say in response to the announcement," the anchor's voice continued before being replaced by Warren's clear tenor.

"I applaud the District Attorney for taking this step to begin addressing the egregious wrongs perpetrated on the people of this city by Draxar, Incorporated and Operation: Zero Tolerance," Warren said. "I will be working closely with the District Attorney's office to provide whatever assistance I can to see to it that justice is done in this matter."

"What about the X-Men?" one of the reporters asked.

Warren smiled briefly. "I'm certain the District Attorney will be able to count on the X-Men's full cooperation."

Rogue arched her brows speculatively. "Ah wonder what Scott's gonna think about that." Scott, along with Remy and Bobby, had left for Four Freedoms Plaza several hours earlier. She glanced over at Logan, who shrugged, before returning her attention to the television.

"Mr. Worthington, are you disappointed that the District Attorney isn't indicting these people for murder instead of just larceny?" another reporter asked.

Warren turned his attention to the reporter, his expression composed but highlighted with anger. "I am confident that the people responsible for the deaths of hundreds—perhaps thousands—of innocent people in the Prime Sentinels program will eventually be held responsible for their crimes." He widened his gaze to take in the entire group. "The District Attorney of New York has taken the first step, and he should be commended for it."

The scene cut back to the news studio. "In related news," the anchor said, "authorities have released the names of three missing persons who have positively been identified as Prime Sentinels." A stock footage image of downtown Los Angeles flashed up on the screen. Thin columns of smoke rose into the hazy air in a couple of places from fires burning somewhere in the city. Rogue wasn't sure how long it had been since she'd seen an image of Los Angeles that didn't look like a war zone.

The news anchor continued, "DNA testing of three sentinels killed during recent fighting in the city have positively identified them as Benito Alvarez, Chantelle Johnson and Raymond Davies." Three pictures appeared on the screen, obviously photographs of the missing people.

"Mr. Alvarez was reported missing nearly six months ago from his home in Long Beach, California." The view changed to show only the image of a thirty-something Hispanic man with buzzed hair and tattoos on his scalp and arms. "He had recently been released from prison after serving a three-year sentence for drug charges."

The woman's picture appeared on the screen, replacing Alvarez's. "Chantelle Johnson disappeared from her home in Philadelphia more than six years ago. The authorities who originally investigated her disappearance concluded that she had most likely run away. She was seventeen at the time."

"And finally," the news anchor said as the third image took over the screen, "Raymond Davies, 22, of Wenatchee, Washington disappeared after attending a Friends of Humanity rally in Portland fourteen months ago." The man in the image stood with a group of friends at some kind of sporting event. He wore a University of Washington sweatshirt and grinned at the camera as if he didn't have a care in the world.

The scene switched once again to the news room. The anchor stared gravely into the camera. "In a release issued just a few minutes ago, Operation: Zero Tolerance denounced the DNA findings, claiming that the results are a fabrication by SHIELD and other renegade groups inside the U.S. government." The anchor glanced down at the desk in front of him before returning his attention to the camera. "The original identification of the three missing people was made by SHIELD but the FBI has also issued a written statement confirming the identifications."

"This brings the total number of identified sentinels to thirty-one. Increasingly, lawmakers and citizens are calling for the President to take action against OZT but the White House has remained ominously silent on the issue."

Logan uttered a caustic snort. "Like anybody still cares."

The news program shifted to international news then, and Rogue turned her attention back to the drawings in front of her with a renewed sense of purpose. They were making a difference.

A few minutes later, the door to the office opened to admit Jean. The red-haired X-woman waddled over to the desk and sank into one of the fronting chairs with a sigh of relief. She leaned back in the chair and rubbed her swollen stomach.

Logan watched her, concern written on his features. "You okay, Red?" he asked after a moment.

Jean gave him a small smile. "Just tired," she answered. She turned to Rogue. "Did Scott or Remy give you any idea when they expected to be back?"

The intensity hidden in her gaze made Rogue pause. She studied Jean more closely, taking note of the tightness around her eyes and the way she kept running one hand across her stomach.

"Not until tonight," Rogue answered, keeping her tone light.

Jean nodded jerkily as her face slowly emptied of color. She appeared to be holding her breath, and Rogue's vague concern coalesced.

"Are ya havin' contractions?" That was the most obvious possibility. The baby was due in just over a week.

Logan whipped around to stare at Jean, who nodded again. "Don't worry, they're still a long ways apart." Jean aimed the comment at Logan. "Hank said there was no reason to stay in the med center until the contractions get closer together."

Rogue bit back the instinct to rush over to the other woman's side as if having a baby were some kind of crisis rather than a normal event.

"Do ya need anything, sugah?" she asked instead.

Jean shifted in her seat, wincing. "Just my husband."

Rogue smiled sympathetically. "Sorry Ah'd conjure him up for ya if ah could. But if ya want ah can send a message ta Reed Richards ta have the guys check in once they get there."

Jean gave her a genuine smile. "That would be great."

"Okay." Rogue reached for the phone.

x-x-x-x

"Remy, have I told you recently that you're insane?" Scott gasped as he dug his fingers into a tiny crack in the sheer stone wall the three men were carefully making their way along. The only light came from the small lamps mounted on the left shoulder of his and Bobby's uniforms and shed just enough illumination to allow Scott to look ahead for his next handhold. His shoulder muscles burned from the exertion and sweat trickled down his neck and back in a steady stream.

Several feet behind him, Remy chuckled. "Not f' at least ten minutes," he answered. He didn't sound particularly out of breath.

Scott resisted the impulse to shake his head. Remy, he had discovered on this brutally long and difficult trek, possessed an unparalleled degree of muscle strength. It had nothing to do with mutant physiology, either, but was simply the result of a lifetime's worth of extreme physical labor. If Scott had stopped to think about what it would require to be the kind of acrobat Remy was, he would have recognized it long ago.

At the front of the group, Bobby was also breathing heavily, though Scott got the feeling the young mutant had long since accepted the amount of pain this level of physical exertion entailed and didn't waste his energy resenting it.

Scott looked up. Twin rock walls rose over his head, seeming to lean toward each other as they disappeared into the darkness beyond the reach of his lamp. The sheer face they worked their way along formed one side of an immense crack in the bedrock beneath New York City. The gap was only about five feet wide at its widest, but it extended hundreds of feet into the earth and was nearly two miles long.

They'd started their journey in the subway tunnels—first moving along the tracks and then ducking into the smaller maintenance shafts. From there, they'd removed a steel plate bolted to the stone wall that covered an opening barely large enough to crawl through, which gave onto this massive subterranean crevasse.

"How did you _find_ this, anyway?" Scott asked. Talking helped distract him from the growing pain in his shoulders and the raw skin on his knuckles and fingertips. They hadn't yet reached the OZT cordon around the Baxter building, so there was no need to remain silent.

"A website f' radical cave explorers, if y'd believe," Remy answered. "An' from there de U.S. Geological Survey."

"Subway train," Bobby warned them suddenly. "Ten seconds." Part of his job on this trip was to keep track of the subway schedule.

Scott quickly secured his grip and leaned into the stone face. A growing rumble, felt through the rock as much as heard, filled the air around them. Scott held on as the train thundered by fifty feet over their heads. The vibration rattled his teeth and threatened to shake him off of his precarious perch.

He breathed a silent sigh of relief once it had passed.

"De next rest point's just ahead," Remy said quietly. There was a note of sympathy in his voice that should have seemed condescending but somehow wasn't. Scott wasn't quite sure why.

He didn't have much attention to devote to puzzling it out, though, so he shelved the question for another time. Instead, he concentrated on making it the last few yards to where a narrow ledge jutted out of the stone, bridging the gap between the opposing faces of the cleft. He clambered onto the ledge and, with a small groan, lowered himself until he was sitting with his back to the rock and his toes a relatively safe two feet from the drop off.

An arm's reach away, Bobby unslung the pack he was carrying. Setting it down on the ground at his feet, he spent a minute stretching then knelt to dig a pair of water bottles out of the pack. He handed one to Scott and took a long drink from the second.

Scott gratefully downed about a third of the bottle, then capped it and set it aside. He dug his fingers into the muscles of his calf. He was going to be in big trouble if his legs started cramping.

"'Bout a quarter mile left." Remy sank into a crouch next to Scott. He glanced at him from under his eyebrows. "Y' gon' make it?"

Scott grimaced. "Do I have a choice?" He leaned his head back for a moment before straightening. "I don't think all of the X-Men are going to be able to make this climb." Jean came to mind immediately, as did Sam. Neither would be able to develop the kind of conditioning necessary in the given time frame. Jean had been out of combat operations for nine months and Sam was only just getting back on his feet after his injury.

Remy shrugged. "Probably not, but it's de only way in wit'out fightin' our way through a bunch o' sentinels."

Scott sighed and switched to massaging his other calf. The city of New York sat atop a veritable maze of tunnels and substructures. Subway tunnels, maintenance shafts, corridors for power and water lines, basements, storm sewers and prohibition-era smugglers' tunnels formed a whole other city underneath the ground. OZT knew this as well and had installed a sophisticated security system in the area around the Baxter building, which it augmented with heavy patrols. Remy could take care of the electronic security measures, but there were simply too many sentinels for them to sneak past.

Their current path bypassed all but the innermost ring of OZT's cordon and would dump them in an old sub-basement where the defunct oil heaters for the Baxter building still sat. The building had been erected shortly after the close of World War II when fuel oil heating was the norm. A later renovation had switched the building to a more modern gas heat system but no one had done more than cap the lines leading to the old heaters.

Remy rose with fluid ease and stepped over to where Bobby stood with his hands on his hips, staring out into the darkness ahead. He clapped the younger man on the shoulder and said something to him. Before long, laughter floated up between them.

Scott struggled to his feet, wincing as his body protested. He understood now how the friendship between the two had become so strong and no longer resented it.

Remy looked over at Scott as he approached. "Ready?" he asked.

Scott forced himself to nod. He glanced at Bobby, taking in the resolute lines of the other man's expression. Bobby obviously wasn't looking forward to another climb any more than he was.

Scott looked at him askance. "And you volunteered to do this for a living?"

Bobby flashed him a grin and shrugged. "The money's good."

The comment took Scott by surprise. He didn't often think of Bobby living the high life off of the proceeds of his new profession.

He crossed his arms. "So how much does an entry-level thief make?" He split his attention between the two men.

Remy started to chuckle.

"What?" Scott asked. He hadn't intended the question to be funny.

Remy shook his head, strange eyes dancing. "Mais, dere's no tellin' what's gon' come out o' y' mouth any more." He grinned his familiar, irritating grin.

Bobby glanced at Remy, his expression amused, then returned his attention to Scott. "The Guild gets fifty percent of value or thirty-five percent of commission. The rest is mine," he answered Scott's original question.

Scott digested that as Bobby moved to the far edge of the narrow shelf. In the dim light, he watched as Bobby chalked his hands and then stepped out onto the rock wall. Stomach tightening, Scott moved to follow him.

_Just one more stretch_, he reminded himself.

x-x-x-x

"So this is... my software?" Jubilee looked up from the computer screen with its multiple windows filled with endless lines of text.

Louis nodded. "A portion of it." He glanced over his shoulder at Colonel Fury, who stood behind the two of them, hands clasped behind his back. Fury simply raised his eyebrows.

Jubilee hunched her shoulders. "And this tells you how the sentinel made me open the door?" Telling Colonel Fury about that had been one of the most terrifying things she'd ever done in her life, but she simply couldn't hide it. Not when OZT had some way of making her do things against her will.

"Actually, yes." With a final look at Fury, he turned his attention to her. "It took a while, but I finally found it." He called up another window on the computer, this one a diagram filled with boxes of various sizes, circles and triangles, all joined by a spider web of interconnecting lines.

"This is a model of your command and control software," he said. Picking up a pen from the table beside him, he used it to point to a large box in the upper left hand corner of the diagram. "This block is the master scheduler. It monitors all the other processes and assigns priority based on a variety of inputs." He tapped each of the larger boxes on the screen, naming them as he went. "This is input signal synthesis, health and system status, weapons control, ground navigation, flight navigation, flight controls and propulsion, communication, output signal synthesis and, finally, the nannite command interface." He glanced up at Fury once again. "These are just the components that appear to be running right now. They're a fairly small subset of the total logic. The rest appears to still be inert."

Jubilee found the description overwhelming, but one thing stood out to her. "Wait. Flight controls? Does that mean I can fly?"

Louis nodded. "If you can figure out how to actively command those functions like you did with your weapons system, then yes, probably. The boosters are built into your calves and feet much like the cannons in your arms. Control is done via vectored thrust." He smiled briefly. "The control algorithms are incredibly complex. They have to be to handle individual motion of the legs as well as the fact that the thrust axis is so far away from the center of gravity."

Jubilee just blinked at the description which she didn't entirely follow.

"Speaking of her weapons system…" Fury stared at Louis. "Can you explain how she's able to tell the sentinel components to do anything? It's been my understanding that once a sentinel's software becomes active, the human brain no longer has any control."

Louis nodded. "In the regular sentinels that's true. They're either on or off. Once the command to transform is given, everything comes online and the sentinel takes complete control of the body." He glanced at Jubilee. "Dr. Reyes tells me that the process destroys all of the brain except what's needed to maintain autonomous functions like heartbeat and breathing, and the parts that do things like regulate the creation of enzymes and that send out impulses to the muscles. Then the neural net is grafted into that remaining portion of the brain, allowing it to control the body's physical functions." He shook his head. "The technology is really pretty astounding."

"But the doc zapped my transformation logic so that couldn't happen to me." Jubilee suppressed a cold shiver at the thought.

Louis nodded. "Right. In your case, what seems to be happening is that you're somehow commanding the nannites to graft individual control system inputs and outputs into the appropriate places in your brain." At her baffled expression, he added, "That means you're running the sentinel software but only using the parts of it you want to. The control logic now has your brain—your mind—included in its forward path so you retain control."

"Which brings us back to the original question," Fury said with a scowl. "She obviously doesn't have total control, so how did OZT manage to take her over?" He shifted his gaze to Jubilee, his scowl deepening. "And is it likely to happen again?"

Louis turned back to the computer screen. "Bear with me. This may take some explaining." At their nods, he moved the computer's cursor over to the first large block in the diagram. "This is the input signal processing algorithm." He clicked on the block, which opened up a new window filled with another tangled web of shapes and lines. To Jubilee it looked like what you might get if you turned an angry two-year-old loose with an Etch-o-sketch.

"All right. This algorithm serves two main purposes." Louis moved the mouse cursor around the screen as he talked, though Jubilee wasn't sure if he were trying to point things out or was just keeping his hands busy. "The first is to insure that erroneous data isn't passed on to the other functions. For example, if a position sensor goes bad and starts telling the software it's in Jersey City instead of New York, then suddenly it's going to try to start navigating off a map of Jersey City and will end up getting very, very lost. There are redundant copies of all the inputs so if one sensor starts saying 'Hey, I'm in Jersey City' and the others all say 'Hey, I'm in New York', the bad information can be voted out." He paused. "That's a gross simplification, but you get the idea."

Jubilee nodded and saw Colonel Fury echo her.

"The second purpose of this algorithm," Louis continued, "is to tell the rest of the software which inputs to listen to under various conditions. For example, when it's on the ground, the input signal management tells the software not to listen to any of the commands coming out of the flight controls module because they're useless unless it's in the air."

His tone turned solemn. "Now, what happened to you, Jubilee, is that there is a section of this input signal synthesis algorithm that basically says 'when I receive this code, bypass all the normal command paths and feed the received signals directly into the output signal paths, skipping all the logic in between', which, by the way, also bypasses your brain."

"An override code, then," Fury commented before Jubilee could find her voice.

Louis nodded. "Yes. There's actually a look up table with a variety of different responses for different codes."

Fury's expression sharpened. "What kind of responses?"

Louis glanced uncertainly at Jubilee. "Everything from a 'return to base' command to self-destruct," he finally answered.

Jubilee's stomach twisted into a nauseated little knot inside her. "Self-destruct? How?"

Louis shrugged. "Allie and Dr. Reyes are still trying to figure that out. The nannites use a very basic machine code –like language and they function in swarms, so no single nannite actually has the whole instruction written to it. Allie and the doc have to piece the instruction together by looking at thousands of individuals and then modeling how those individuals will behave as a group while carrying out their commands. The only reason we know as much as we do is because the look up table in your software was annotated with comments labeling each of the entries." He flashed a sardonic grin. "Well-documented code is a rare and beautiful thing."

Colonel Fury didn't acknowledge the attempt at levity. "So what do we do about it?" he asked instead.

Louis glanced up at the colonel but then turned to face Jubilee as he answered. The small gesture tightened her throat and made swallowing impossible. Too many people talked about her like she wasn't really there—like she wasn't a real person any more. Even Colonel Fury did it, though he, at least, was dismissive toward everyone and not just her.

"At the moment, you seem to be able to refuse transmissions from other sentinels," Louis told her, "and if you don't receive an override code, you're not going to react to it." He straightened in his seat, his expression resolute. "However, we have no guarantee there isn't some buried bit of code in there that will allow OZT to transmit a signal you can't block, so the only reliable solution will be to rewrite this section of code and either break the input path to the table or change the table values."

Jubilee felt the first stirrings of hope. "That sounds simple enough."

He frowned. "In theory."

"What does that mean?" She bounced one heel on the floor in a nervous jitter.

Louis breathed a soft sigh and leaned back in his chair. He tossed his pen down on the desk where it rolled in a broad circle until it fetched up against the edge of the keyboard. "Sentinels weren't designed to have their software updated. There's no mechanism for uploading new code."

Jubilee digested that with a sinking sense of dismay. "Does that mean there's nothing you can do?" she finally asked.

Louis gave her an evaluating look. "There's nothing _we_ can do." He gestured to himself and Colonel Fury. "But you've been rewiring your sentinel half recently, so maybe there's something _you_ can do about it." His mouth curled into a thin smile. "Personally, I think you've probably turned into a whole lot more than Bastion expected or he would have thought twice about setting you free."

Fury turned to stare at Jubilee, who had to fight not to fidget under his piercing gaze. Louis' analysis made something warm and bright bubble up inside her even as it terrified her. Unconsciously she wrapped her arms around herself, fingers tracing the fresh scars that marked the outsides of her arms where the laser canons emerged.

She looked up at Colonel Fury and then over at Louis. "I guess… I'm ready to try." She shrugged. "I just don't know what to do."

She thought she saw approval flicker in the colonel's gaze.

Louis smiled encouragingly. "Well, like everything else we've done, it'll be a process of experimentation. But, I do have some ideas for where to start."

x-x-x-x

Bastion looked up as Bill Green walked into his office, a thin manila folder clenched in one hand.

"You were right, sir," Bill said without preamble, tossing the folder down on the desk in front of Bastion.

Bastion kept his expression still as he pulled the folder toward himself and flipped it open. The folder contained several glossy images and a single typed page with the OZT logo at the top.

"About what?" he asked. The top image was obviously from a thermal scan, full of vague shapes in bright, computer-generated rainbows hues. He picked out several human forms, their outlines overlapping and indistinct.

Bill gestured to the top image. "We just received a priority message from the spotters stationed at Four Freedoms Plaza. There are three unknown people inside the building right now with the Fantastic Four."

Bastion looked up sharply. He'd ordered twenty-four hour surveillance of the Baxter building not long after contracting the hit on the X-Man, Gambit, neither of which had produced any immediate fruit, much to his frustration.

"Right now?"

"As of twenty minutes ago, sir."

"Who are they?" Bastion spread the thermal images out on his desk. He quickly identified Sue Richards and her son in one image and Ben Grimm in another. Their shapes and sizes were unmistakable. The remaining five people were all of fairly normal human build—probably all male, but he couldn't say for certain beyond that.

Bill crossed his arms over his chest. "Unknown, sir. We still can't see into the building." A couple of months earlier, the Fantastic Four had gone through and coated all of the windows and much of the structure in the building with some kind of reflective material. The coating reflected nearly all useful wavelengths, from visible light all the way up to x-rays, making it impossible to see inside with anything but a thermal imager. And even then they'd had to tweak the imaging software significantly before they'd gotten any usable returns.

Bastion resisted the desire to close his hands into fists as a dark anger filled him. He'd been willing to leave the Fantastic Four alone provided they stayed inside their home base and didn't interfere in his campaign against mutants. But rather than respect the limits he'd set they seemed intent on defying him at every turn. They needed to be punished like the disobedient children they were.

"It almost has to be the X-Men," Bill said, snapping him out of his thoughts. "If Gambit is who we think he is, they'd probably be able to get inside."

Bastion looked back at the images, his thoughts suddenly turning with possibilities. If those were three X-Men in the building, it presented him with a unique opportunity to demonstrate to all of humanity that he would not tolerate any more interference in his mission. There was some risk to it, of course, which was why he'd held off as long as he had. But maybe now the time had come.

Nodding subconsciously, he made his decision. "Get the broadcast equipment ready," he told Bill, "and send a message to each of the human governments. I'm going to hold a press conference in thirty minutes and I want the whole world to be listening."

Bill straightened, his expression betraying traces of surprise. "Yes, sir." He turned and hurried out.

Bastion looked back down at the scattered photos in front of him. Reaching out, he picked up the clearest image of the five unidentified figures. "I have been patient long enough," he said quietly.

Then, with a dismissive flick of his wrist he tossed the picture back down on the desk and turned away.


	55. Chapter 55

Chapter 55

"Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in." Ben Grimm's craggy face split in a genuine grin as Bobby, Scott and Remy climbed through a small access hatch and into the interior of the Baxter building. Johnny Storm stood beside the huge scientist, arms akimbo and a wide smile on his face.

"Hey, Ben." In the lead, Bobby accepted the hand Ben offered to help him clamber through the narrow hatch. "How's it going?"

Ben shrugged. "Can't complain." Bobby stepped aside to let Ben offer the same aid to Scott.

Scott gratefully accepted. His muscles quivered with exhaustion but he tried not to let it show.

Johnny rolled his eyes at Ben. "_You_ can't complain, maybe. I'm bored out of my skull. Hey, Remy." Johnny craned his head to look past Scott. "Can you believe I'm going to miss the Monaco Gala this year?" His frown looked suspiciously like a pout.

Scott glanced behind him as Remy crawled through the small opening. The thief managed to make it seem like it was natural for a full grown man to fold himself in half to fit through a two foot by two foot hole.

Remy grinned up at the Human Torch. "M' heart bleeds for y', John. Really." He slid out of the hatch and stood, brushing dust and cobwebs from his uniform.

"You two know each other?" Scott looked between the two.

Remy shrugged. "We cross paths every so often."

Ben closed the access hatch behind the three X-Men and then turned to lead them out of the poorly lit sub-basement.

Johnny chuckled and shot Remy a sly look. "Wherever the action's hottest, eh Rem?" He sauntered along beside Ben, looking every bit the playboy the media and gossip rags portrayed him as. "Hey, remember that time in Rio, what was it, two years ago? You had that crazy run at the blackjack table."

Remy flashed his scoundrel's grin.

Johnny went on without pausing. "Oh, and remember those twins? I swear, I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. Monica and—and—" He snapped his fingers, trying to remember.

"Mandy," Remy supplied with a snort.

"Yeah, that's it. Man, she was all over you." Johnny continued to chatter.

Scott watched with interest as Bobby shot Remy an inquisitive look, to which Remy responded with a tiny flicker of acknowledgment. Scott didn't know for certain what it meant but he could guess that Remy had been there for reasons other than the women and gambling. He found that strangely reassuring.

Ben led them into a stairwell. Scott took one look at the cement stairs doubling back on themselves as far upward as he could see and groaned.

"We cannibalized the elevator shafts to make room for your rocket, remember?" Ben reminded him.

"How far up are we going?" he couldn't help but ask.

Ben grinned at him with cheerful menace. "Forty-five stories."

Scott cursed under his breath. "Somebody, kill me now," he muttered.

Remy's laughter followed him as he started up the stairs.

x-x-x-x

Scott forgot all such mundane things as his aching legs as they walked into Reed Richards' lab. The immediate vicinity looked like it had once been an office area, but had since been taken over for technology development. Banks of computing equipment formed impromptu walls between the support columns and in places the industrial grade carpet had been ripped up in order to run bundles of multicolored cables beneath the floor. Several of the modular-type desks that inhabited cube farms everywhere had been moved into the center of the floor and overflowed with more equipment.

But it was the view beyond the lab that stopped Scott in his tracks. The interior walls that should have divided the area off from the central core of the building had been removed. A narrow metal guardrail was all that stood between them and the vast empty shaft that took up the center of the building where the elevators had once run. And filling that space was the rocket.

Scott walked over to the edge to get a better look. By leaning out over the rail he could see the entire vehicle, from the massive, blocky engines on which it sat, up the hundreds of feet of cylindrical fuel tanks to the tiny pyramid-shaped passenger capsule located at the very top. The basic design was nearly identical to those used in the early days of the space program, though Scott suspected this one would prove to be far more sophisticated than its early ancestors.

A few minutes later, Remy joined him at the railing.

"It's amazing, isn't it?" Scott asked. The sheer scope of what Reed had managed to accomplish took his breath away.

Remy glanced toward the rocket without reaction and then looked at Scott. "Dunno. What am I supposed t' be seein'?"

Scott blinked, startled despite himself. He looked back out at the immense column of metal and composites, trying to wrap his mind around the idea that for Remy it simply didn't exist. He couldn't see it.

Scott spent a couple of minutes trying to describe the launch vehicle to the other man before a more practical curiosity took over his thoughts. He glanced over his shoulder at the tangle of tables and equipment Remy would have had to navigate to reach him.

"How did you get over here, anyway?" Bobby had gone over to a set of monitors on the far side of the lab area and was looking at something with Ben and Johnny.

Remy shrugged. "I jus' walked de same path you did. Since y' didn' run into anyt'ing, it stands t' reason I wouldn' either."

Scott had to smile at the blinding simplicity of that logic.

"So, does my design meet with your approval, Cyclops?" Reed Richards asked as he entered the room from a door off to Scott's left. His wife, Sue, and their son followed him.

Franklin immediately bounded across the room toward Ben and Johnny. Ben scooped the boy up and deposited him on the desk next to where they were working, giving him a good view of the computer screens.

Scott turned. "I'm thoroughly impressed," he admitted. He'd had his doubts that even Reed Richards could build and launch a spacecraft from the middle of downtown New York.

Reed extended his hand in greeting and Scott shook it. "It's good to see you again," Reed said. Beside him, Sue smiled and nodded her agreement.

"And you," Scott returned. Though the X-Men and Fantastic Four hadn't always seen eye to eye on various issues, their mutual respect had kept the groups on good terms.

Reed turned his attention to Remy, greeting him in similar fashion.

"We received an encrypted message from the X-Men earlier this morning," Reed said. He gestured for the two X-Men to follow him toward the far side of the lab.

Scott's stomach tightened instinctively. "What did it say?"

Sue flashed him a smile but then shifted her gaze to Remy. "'Tell Gambit to call his wife'," she answered.

Remy raised both eyebrows in curiosity. Scott felt his own tension dissipate. The message hadn't contained any of their emergency phrases so whatever Rogue wanted couldn't be too critical.

Johnny turned as they approached. "Is that some kind of code?" he asked Remy.

Remy shrugged. "Sure. It's code f' I need t' call my wife."

"You're married?" Johnny gave him a supremely disappointed look. "How did that happen? You told me you were swearing off relationships for good once your divorce was finalized."

Remy's response was a tired sigh. "T'ings change, John." He looked over at Reed. "Phone?"

Beyond Reed, Sue reached over and smacked Johnny smartly on the back of the head.

"_Ow._" Johnny clapped both hands to his head and shot his sister a wounded look. "What was that for?"

Sue gave him a sweet smile. "You looked like you needed some help dislodging your foot from your mouth."

Reed ignored their antics. He picked up a small handset surrounded by what Scott presumed was the encryption equipment and handed it to Remy. He went through a brief description of the system which differed from what the X-Men had on the other end.

Scott watched Remy covertly as the other man went through the process of placing a call to the Guild complex. It hadn't occurred to him to wonder what Remy thought about his marriage to Rogue. The Guildmaster's opinion hadn't been asked, nor would it have changed anything.

"So how are you handling the launch itself?" Scott asked Reed while Remy talked with Rogue. "Has anyone ever launched a rocket into orbit from this far north?"

Reed shook his head. "Not to my knowledge. That's one of the reasons we can only get you there and not back again. It takes a lot of extra power to get into orbit from here and as you can see, we could only make the engines and fuel tanks so big." He gestured toward the huge shaft housing the nearly-complete vehicle.

"How are you going to keep the exhaust gasses from blowing up the whole building during launch?" Bobby asked curiously. Remy glanced their way at that; he was obviously keeping one ear tuned to the conversation.

Scott frowned. That was a very good question. "These are solid fuel rockets, right?" he asked.

Reed nodded again. "Even with Sue and Johnny to help, there's probably not going to be a whole lot left of Four Freedoms Plaza after the launch," he told them. "In terms of livable space, at least. The forces involved are just too big to confine, even with our powers. However, we've done a lot of structural work to the underground portions of the building in order to allow some of the blast force to vent into the sewer system and the subway tunnels. Enough, hopefully, to keep the building from coming down around our ears." He turned to Scott. "We'll need your help to make sure those subway lines get shut down ahead of time—whether that means sabotaging the trains or what, I don't know—but you X-Men seem to have a lot of the right contacts for that sort of thing."

Scott just nodded as Remy concluded his conversation and hung up the phone.

"Everything okay?" Scott asked.

Remy frowned, but nodded. "Rogue says Bastion's announced he's goin' t' hold a press conference in about twenty minutes. All de major networks are poised t' cover it."

Sue tucked a lock of long, blond hair behind her ear. "This should be interesting. Bastion hasn't made a public announcement for months."

"Makes you wonder what's brought him out of hiding now," Bobby said, his tone as uneasy as his expression. He leaned one hip against the nearest desk and crossed his arms.

Ben shrugged. "Every snake crawls out of its hole eventually." He glanced down at the boy still seated beside him. "Right, Franklin?"

Franklin nodded.

Scott turned back to Remy. "Is that why she wanted you to call?"

Remy shook his head, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Non. Jean's gone into labor an' they were hopin' we could make dis trip as short as possible."

"Labor?" Scott suffered a moment of full-blown panic before he managed to squelch it. Jean was going to kill him if he missed the baby's birth. Not only that, but he really wanted to be there. He needed to be there. "Did she say how long—?"

Remy shrugged. "Nope, but since she's still sittin' in de office wit' Rogue, I'd say y' got a little time, at least. They're gon' watch de press conference an' then it sounded like Jean was gon' go find Hank."

Scott instinctively checked his watch. "It's going to take us a good six hours to get back out of here," he said and pinched the bridge of his nose at the thought of making that long climb in reverse. Jean was going to be lucky if he didn't fall asleep on her.

Remy snorted. "Seven, homme. Maybe eight." He gave Scott a piercing stare. "It took six t' get in, but we're gon' have t' take it slower on de way back. A body gets tired, makes mistakes if dey don' take some extra care."

Scott did his best to accept the admonishment, grateful Remy had spoken in generalities. It was a stupid bit of ego, he knew, but he really didn't want the Fantastic Four knowing that he was the one setting the pace—in the negative sense—on this trip.

"All right." He spent a quick moment organizing his thoughts. "Let's see what Bastion has to say first, and then I'd like a tour of the capsule—" He gestured toward the nose of the rocket some two hundred feet above their heads, "and a walkthrough of the launch sequence." He glanced at Remy to gauge his reaction. "After that we'll head home."

Remy just shrugged. "You're de boss."

x-x-x-x

"Sir, I'm showing a significant increase in airborne sentinel activity over Manhattan. At least six additional sentinels have taken up station and a second flight of four is coming in from the west," a SHIELD officer reported, his tone clipped and efficient.

Colonel Nick Fury looked around his Operations center with a scowl. The X-Men's War Room had become SHIELD's new logistical center. It was filled with sensing and communications equipment and manned by his Ops crew from the Helicarrier.

"Ground activity?" Fury asked.

"No noticeable increase in ground troops," a different soldier answered from his station off to Fury's left. "But our people in the area are reporting numerous sentinels on the move." The man studied his readouts for a moment. "A large group—mixed CAT and humanoid—are moving north along Park Avenue."

Fury looked over at him in alarm. "Toward Worthington?"

"They're moving in that direction, sir, but I don't think that's their objective."

"Show me."

"Yes, sir." The man hurried to comply.

The main screen lit with a satellite image of the Manhattan area with streets and major landmarks labeled in dark print. Central Park formed a snowy, gray-white square in the middle of the picture. Red and blue triangular icons representing the two varieties of sentinels moved along Park Avenue's broad thoroughfare, headed north. Scattered set of additional icons, mostly pairs, also moved through the streets, but most of those appeared to be moving in a roughly southerly direction. The picket line of sentinels surrounding Four Freedoms Plaza remained in their standard position.

Fury worked his jaw as he studied the troop movements. "Lieutenant, status on those airborn sentinels."

A smattering of orange icons appeared on the map.

"Two of the four have peeled off and taken up stationary positions near Worthington. The remainder appear to be on patrol routes."

Fury didn't like it. His gut told him the changes were part of some bigger plan, though he didn't immediately see what.

He looked over at his communications officer. "Launch the alert fighters now," he ordered, "and I want an Eagle in the air as soon as possible." Eagle was their term for the Airborne Early Warning aircraft that would coordinate activity between all of their aerial assets. Like the AWACS system that had preceded it, the Eagle was a modified passenger jet capable of remaining in the air for long periods of time. It would feed information both to the SHIELD assets in the air and on the ground, and to the Operations center.

The officer nodded and turned to his console.

Moments later, a muted rumble came through the back wall as the pair of alert fighters launched from the hangar deck. The X-Men's hangar was too small for more than a handful of aircraft, though, so the rest of SHIELD's air power, particularly the larger aircraft, were hidden at temporary, mobile airstrips scattered about the northeastern U.S. It would take them a little longer to respond.

Fury nodded to himself. He didn't know what Bastion might be planning, but they would be ready to respond.

x-x-x-x

Bastion stepped up to the podium, whose solid wood front was inscribed with a filigree inlay of the Earth done in remarkable detail. He wore a dark gray suit with a black shirt and a pristinely white tie. The tie's color accentuated his white hair and helped make his pale skin look a little less unnatural.

Inside Four Freedoms Plaza, the entire group had gathered around one of the computer monitors which currently streamed a live feed from one of the major news stations.

"You know, I'm not entirely certain he's human," Sue said with a nod toward the television.

Scott turned to look at her in surprise. "What makes you say that?" Though there was precious little information to be had about Bastion's identity or origin, he hadn't heard anyone floating a serious theory that painted the man as something non-human.

She shrugged. "Some of his reactions are off, I guess. His behavior, his mannerisms… sometimes he seems more like a very good imitation of a human being rather than the real thing."

"Makes you wonder if maybe he's some kind of sentinel himself," Bobby added with a frown.

Scott glanced at Remy who cocked his head, his expression appraising. "Dat might explain why nobody's been able t' come up wit' much information on him."

Scott agreed, but kept his response to a nod as Bastion began to speak.

"Ladies and gentlemen. People of the Earth." Bastion gripped the edges of the podium and stared directly into the camera, his pale gaze steady. "A little over eight months ago, our world staggered beneath the terrible threat of the presence of mutants among us. Onslaught had just laid waste to a large section of New York City. Not long before that, Magneto held the world hostage to terror with the threat of a nuclear attack. Countless innocents have been hurt or killed by mutant aggression across the globe and property damage has reached into the billions of dollars."

Scott crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. How much worse would the damage have been, he wondered, if there hadn't been mutant teams like the X-Men around to stop them, too? And what about the non-mutant threats they'd dealt with? What would have happened to the Earth and its people if there'd been no mutants to defend them from those?

Bastion paused briefly before going on. "At that time, I proclaimed to you my Zero Tolerance policy against mutants. With the help of several different organizations and with the support of the United States government and those of many allied nations, Operation: Zero Tolerance activated the ring of satellites over our heads that prevents mutants from using all but the most basic and physical of their powers." His gaze roamed the room as if looking out over his worldwide audience.

"Magneto—wherever he is and if he still lives—is now just a man like everyone else. You do not have to be afraid of him anymore."

The three X-Men exchanged glances at that. They still didn't know for sure if Joseph and Magneto were one and the same.

Bastion released the corners of the podium and folded his hands in front of him. "But despite these measures, mutant aggression has not stopped." His face took on a stern cast, like a father scolding his children. "By far the worst offenders are the X-Men who continue to wage an illegal war against the legitimate authorities of the United States."

Scott shook his head, disgusted. "OZT is _not_ a legitimate authority in any country," he muttered. "He makes it sound like we're trying to topple the government."

Reed turned toward him with a frown. "There is just enough confusion on that point to keep many people who might otherwise throw their lot in with us paralyzed with indecision."

Scott looked up sharply. "Who do you mean?"

"The vast majority of our armed forces, for one," Reed answered, "as well as the FBI and state and local law enforcement agencies." He shrugged. "As long as both the White House and the judicial system remain silent, no one really knows for sure just how legitimate OZT is." He paused. "Which is why the Worthington suit is so important."

"That was a stroke of genius," Sue interjected, leaning forward to look past her husband. "Whoever came up with it."

Scott couldn't help a small smile. "Warren's idea," he told her. Warren had always had a highly political mind, as well as the necessary ins among the wealthy and powerful to push something like a lawsuit against OZT. Scott had no idea how many favors Warren had called in to make it happen, but he suspected the other man had squeezed just as much influence out of his family name as he could.

Bastion continued speaking throughout the conversation, and Scott quickly turned his attention back to the news feed.

"In recent weeks, several groups have made the regrettable decision to support the X-Men in their acts of terror," Bastion told his audience.

Beside Remy, Bobby rolled his eyes. "Geez, he's laying it on thick."

"Until today, the most notable among these has been SHIELD," Bastion went on. "A group originally formed to protect humanity from mutants, SHIELD has recently abdicated this duty and joined forces with the X-Men and their allies."

Bastion paused and his tone turned grave. "But today humanity is faced with a new betrayal by some of its most respected heroes."

An instinctive alarm in Scott's head began to ring. Beside him, he saw Remy's brow crinkle in concern.

"Don' like de sound o' dat," Remy said in an undertone.

Scott didn't get a chance to respond as the screen split and a multi-color computerized image filled the right hand side while Bastion's visage remained in the left. Scott identified it as a thermal image after a moment. Several people were visible in the image, their bodies shaded in oranges and reds that stood out against the murky greens of the background.

"This thermal image was taken less than an hour ago," Bastion said. "Ladies and gentlemen, you are looking inside Four Freedoms Plaza, and three of these figures are X-Men."

x-x-x-x

Trish Tilby sat bolt upright in her chair at Bastion's pronouncement. Her heels, which had been propped on the corner of the desk, dropped unceremoniously to the floor. The steno pad on which she'd been taking notes on his speech slipped out of her fingers. It flopped on the ground beside her chair with the pen following a moment later. A chill skittered across her skin, making her gut tighten.

"Did he just say the X-Men are inside Four Freedoms Plaza?" Eddie asked incredulously from across the desk. He'd been working on copy for their evening FreedomNet entry, but now he sat frozen, fingers poised over his keyboard as he stared at Trish.

She nodded. It wasn't so much that the X-Men were inside the Baxter building. After their sentinels factory break-in, she figured the X-Men could get into anything they wanted. It was the fact that Bastion knew—more than that—that he was announcing it to the world that made her journalist's instincts scream.

"Isn't that, like, fifteen blocks from here?" Eddie continued.

The comment had a galvanizing effect. Trish's thoughts sharpened abruptly and she jumped to her feet. "C'mon. Grab the camera."

She grabbed her coat off the back of her chair and slipped into it. She'd gotten pretty good at doing the buttons one-handed, which was good because she hated having to ask for help.

"Where are we going?" Eddie asked as she led him into the stairwell and headed upward at a run.

"The roof. Hurry." They should have a decent view of Four Freedoms from there and her gut was telling her that she would miss the story if they didn't move fast.

Trish was breathing heavily by the time they got up to the steel door leading out onto the roof. Putting her weight into it, she shoved the door open and burst through into a thin, cold winter day. Gravel crunched beneath her shoes. Across the jagged landscape of buildings, she could clearly see the top half of the Fantastic Four's home base. Like the other towers of its day, the Baxter building was made of stone, with narrow windows and heavy decorative crenellations at the top where it began to narrow into a tall spire. At one point in history it had dwarfed everything in the city save the Empire State building, but now it was nearly swallowed by the shining glass towers that lined the East Side of Manhattan.

A distant roar made her look up. A pair of fighters left dual contrails in the sky as they flew in a broad, arcing path around the city. Eddie raised the camera to capture the two. Airplanes always made for great background footage.

Trish pointed toward the Baxter building. "Over there."

Eddie obediently swung around. Trish had just a second to wonder if she was going to end up looking like an idiot for racing up there just to shoot film of a building that had been standing for sixty years when a massive blue-white beam speared down out of the sky to strike the top of Four Freedoms Plaza.

The top of the tower exploded. Trish uttered a little shriek of surprise as the upper floors shattered in a boiling cloud of dust and flame. Pieces of masonry flew violently outward to impact the faces of neighboring buildings and several immense chunks of stone broke away, tumbling toward the ground. The flagpole that topped the tower fell too, trailing the American flag like a broken banner in its wake.

The blast wave hit Trish a moment later, staggering her, and a deafening roar filled the air. The beam glowed white-hot, too bright to stare at. It remained constant rather than cutting out and while the first pieces of the tower were still falling, another section of the building bulged outward and then exploded with a roar even louder than the first. A massive orange fireball rolled upward into the sky, momentarily obscuring the white beam.

Beside Trish, Eddie chanted a constant string of Our Father's from his Catholic school days.

Suddenly a curving shield winked into existence somewhere in the middle of the building. Like an invisible umbrella, it shielded the floors beneath it. Dust, fire and falling stone all slid down the sides of the shield, disappearing from Trish's view beyond the neighboring buildings. Even the white beam seemed to cascade down it like liquid lightning.

"Look! That's got to be the Invisible Woman," Trish yelled over the noise of the explosion. She pointed with her good hand toward the shield. "The Fantastic Four are still alive in there!"

Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the shield winked out. The beam struck the remaining stub of the Baxter building, destroying it in a fiercesome ball of fire. The explosion rocked the nearby buildings, making them shudder and sending a huge column of dust and smoke spewing into the sky.

Trish stared. The Fantastic Four couldn't be dead, could they? And the X-Men? Her mind began to race. Three X-Men, Bastion had said. _Which_ three, though? A tiny pit formed in her stomach as she considered the possibilities. Surely not Hank… even though he _was_ one of only a few people in the world who could understand Reed Richard's work in depth.

_Please, not Hank_, she found herself pleading toward whatever God might be watching, but just as quickly shoved the thought away. Her duty was to report the news—the truth—as completely and accurately as she could.

Heart pounding, Trish dug through her pockets, emerging with her cell phone. She dialed the personal number of an old friend who happened to be a news director over at CNN.

As she did so, several members of her crew came barreling through the door to the roof. Nearly in unison they slid to a stop, their expressions going slack with awe as they took in the scope of the destruction. One had their satellite uplink dish folded up and balanced on his shoulder.

"You read my mind," Trish told him and pointed to a spot off to her left. "Set it up right there."

The phone she held picked up after a couple of rings and she immediately recognized her friend's voice.

"Make it fast, Trish," he said breathlessly. "Bastion just attacked Four Freedoms Plaza."

Trish stared into the distance where several sentinels had risen into the air and were circling the column of smoke. "I know. I got it on tape." She smiled grimly at the stunned silence on the other end of the line. "I'm sending it to you now."


	56. Chapter 56

Chapter 56

"Ladies and gentlemen, you are looking inside Four Freedoms Plaza, and three of these figures are X-Men." Bastion's words seemed inordinately loud in the shocked silence that filled Four Freedoms Plaza.

"How are they imaging the interior of the building?" Johnny demanded after a moment. "They're not supposed to be able to do that. We covered every inch of this place with that full-spectrum reflectant."

Remy barely heard him. A gut-level kind of terror gripped him, the primal run-or-die instinct that had saved his life time and again on the streets of New Orleans. That same instinct screamed at him now, like the sound of a thousand bees buzzing just below his hearing threshold. Adrenaline flooded his system, hot and tingling.

"We thought that would be sufficient," Reed answered Johnny, "but no one really knows the extent of Bastion's technology."

"The question is why is he announcing it?" Ben rumbled, sounding vaguely worried. Still seated on the table next to him, Franklin looked up. Remy wasn't very good at reading children's heat signatures—their bodies tended to run warm compared to adults—but he thought the reaction was more curiosity than anything.

Ben reached down and tousled the boy's hair.

Remy leaned toward Scott, his fingers flexing instinctively at his sides. "We need t' get out o' here now."

Scott nodded. "Yeah, that's probably a good idea. Let's hear Bastion out—"

"_Now_, Cyclops." The need to move—to run—had become a nearly unbearable pressure in the middle of his chest.

Sue's head swiveled as she looked between her husband and Ben. "If Bastion knows the X-Men are here, he may send sentinels in after them," she said. "We need to make sure our defenses are set properly and be ready to repel them."

Remy couldn't take it anymore. "Bobby," he said quietly.

Bobby turned toward him. "Yeah, boss?"

"Run."

In the startled pause that followed, Remy did the only thing he could think of that was guaranteed to get everyone moving in an appropriate direction, hopefully in time to keep them all alive.

Darting forward, he scooped Franklin Richard up in his arms and sprinted for the railing that separated the lab from the vast empty space surrounding the launch vehicle.

"Remy, what are you doing?" Scott's protest rose behind him.

Without pausing, Remy threw himself over the railing and out into the gap, curling protectively around the boy as they fell.

"_Franklin!_" The cry rose from both of the Richards.

In a corner of his mind, Remy was very pleased when Bobby was the first person over the railing after him. The young thief leapt off into empty space, arms spread as if he were parachuting rather than leaping suicidally into a four-hundred foot deep shaft. The depth of Bobby's trust never ceased to amaze him.

Just behind Bobby, a brilliant wash of color announced Johnny's transformation into the Human Torch. He sailed into the air, glowing like the hot center of a furnace. Some of his heat washed over the side of the rocket, illuminating a small, curving portion of the cylinder in Remy's sight.

Franklin's arms tightened fiercely around Remy's neck. "Mr. Remy, you're crazy!" he shouted over the rush of the air.

Remy nearly laughed at that. Despite the fact that they were falling, the further they travelled the safer he felt. "Don' worry, petit," he told the boy. "Y' parents ain' gon' let y' die."

Above them, Reed Richards arched over the quickly receding railing, stretching down toward them like some kind of living rubber band. His heat signature rippled in a thoroughly unnatural, psychedelic fashion.

Sue followed her husband down the shaft. Remy could see the force fields that carried her, if barely, because of the heat they generated as a byproduct. They looked like fine, bright filaments floating in the air beneath her.

Then, with a roar like the end of the world the very top of the tower, well beyond Sue's position, dissolved in a flash of heat so intense Remy had to shut his eyes. When he was able to look again, all he could see was a huge, seething ball of colors against which Sue's and Bobby's forms now looked like cool shadows. The air filled with the smell of fuel and scorched metal. An alarm inside the building began to wail.

Sue pointed and Johnny dove toward the bottom of the shaft, away from the brilliant explosion that enveloped the space above them. He snagged Bobby midair, turning them both upright in a move that was familiar to every member of every super-powered team on the planet.

At the same time, Remy felt Reed's arms wrap around himself and Franklin like the coils of some strange, flat snake. But where a snake was hard to the touch—solid with muscle—Reed's limbs felt softer. The closest thing Remy could think of was the taut, tremendously flexible surface of a trampoline.

Bungee-like, their fiercesome rate of descent began to slow and with Bobby and the Human Torch just a couple of seconds behind, Reed set them gently down on the floor of the shaft. Remy kept Franklin in his arms rather than setting him on the ground.

Another blast rocked the building, this one lower. Sue raised her hands and a wide, curving shield appeared above her head. The waves of heat and force boiled against it without penetrating. With screeches and groans of tearing metal, pieces of the rocket and probably the building as well fell inward to crash against the shield.

"Elevator going down!" Remy heard Ben's shout and looked up as the final member of the Four leapt off the edge with Scott in his massive arms. He dropped like the rock he was, landing at the bottom of the shaft with enough force to pulverize the cement beneath his feet with a sound like a volley of gunshots.

In all defiance of gravity Reed's form contracted, drawing his lower half down the shaft until he stood, once again human-sized and -shaped, next to Remy. He held out his arms and Remy wordlessly transferred Franklin to him.

"I can't hold this much longer!" Sue yelled from above them. She was hunched over mid-air, her posture mimicking the strain of maintaining her force shield.

"Ben, bust us a route out of here," Scott said as the other man set him on his feet. "Get us into the sewers or subway tunnels or whatever."

Nodding, Ben lumbered forward and slammed his fist into what Remy presumed was a wall. The Fantastic Four had changed the structural layout significantly from the drawing he had memorized, leaving him without adequate references. He heard the crack of thin cement shattering. Scott urgently motioned them forward.

Bobby caught Remy's elbow, helping him stumble through the debris from Ben's demolition. Following Richards, they staggered into a cooler space which Remy guessed was still part of the building's substructure. Ben had already reached the far side of the room and was pounding his fists into the next wall which sounded far thicker than the previous one.

Remy heard Sue shriek from somewhere behind and above them.

Johnny had remained at the bottom of the shaft, ready to help his sister. He stuck his head through the hole Ben had made.

"The whole building's coming down!" he shouted and waved in Ben's direction. "Hurry! I'm going back for Sue." He turned and rocketed up the shaft, out of sight.

A moment later the entire building began to vibrate and a freight train roar filled the air. It grew louder with every passing second, drowning out the sounds as Ben broke through the second wall. The Thing plowed through the opening with the rest of them directly behind him. Water splashed beneath Remy's feet as he stumbled forward, twisting his ankle painfully on the uneven pieces of cement that littered the ground. The air around him lightened as it warmed, and he could feel a growing heat against his back as the explosion raced to overtake them.

He staggered on, limping as Bobby dragged him forward after the others. They turned a corner, out of the direct path of the blast, and Remy instinctively threw himself to the ground. Screaming and growling, the main wave of flame raced past them, shoving a cloud of searing dust before it. The heated air scalded Remy's lungs and the tender tissues inside his nose. He buried his face in the crook of his arm, desperately hoping they weren't going to end up being cooked alive.

He'd barely had time to form the thought, though, when the air began to cool. In seconds the temperature had dropped to a normal underground temperature, and the air turned its usually murky color. Remy looked up to see Johnny standing at the mouth of whatever tunnel they'd turned into, his flame-licked form unusually bright as he absorbed the heat into himself. Sue crouched on the ground next to his feet, her weight braced on one hand. She looked exhausted.

Coughing on the now-cool dust that hung heavy in the air, Remy climbed slowly to his feet. Around him the others did the same. The Richards huddled around Franklin for a moment, checking him for injury, but the boy appeared to have come through unscathed. The air around them echoed with the groans of settling debris from the ruined building.

Scott ran a hand through his hair. "That was a little too close," he said after a moment.

Gingerly Remy tested his ankle. It hurt, but held his weight. "Next time y' take me seriously when I say 'now', eh?" he asked, keeping his tone light.

Reed looked up. "We'd better keep moving. I doubt this area is structurally sound anymore."

Scott nodded. "Remy, what's our best route out of here?"

Remy grimaced. "I don' know where we are, mon ami." Other than beneath and vaguely west of the building, which wasn't going to help them much. "Until I get some kind o' reference point t' work from, I'm pretty much lost."

"Great." Scott shook his head.

Ben gestured down their current tunnel. "I vote this way," he rumbled. "We've only got two choices, and this one has probably suffered the least damage."

Scott looked toward Reed as if silently gathering the other man's opinion.

"Okay. That works for me," Scott said after a second. He gestured for Ben to head in that direction. "You'd better take the point. There are sentinels down here."

x-x-x-x

"Warren, sugah, ya gotta get out of the buildin'." Rogue leaned her weight on one hand and held the phone to her ear with the other. She couldn't do anything about the tears that blurred her vision or the way her voice shook, but there were still people's lives at risk. She couldn't give in to the hysterical fury that made her want to smash anything she could get her hands on. "Bastion's got some kind a space-based weapon. He just—" She swallowed hard. "He just blew up Four Freedoms."

"I know, Rogue. We saw it, too." Warren sounded harried and out of breath. "We're evacuating the building now." A babble of voices filled the background. Rogue thought she heard Elisabeth shouting something in the distance as well as a cultured voice making some kind of announcement over a loudspeaker.

"We've got a problem, though," Warren continued. "There are sentinels circling the building, probably more down on the street." He paused to give instructions to someone on his end, the voices muffled. "I'm going to send my employees out at street level anyway—getting everyone out has to be the first priority—but if you can get Colonel Fury to put some bodies on the street here, it'd make me feel a lot better about their chances."

Rogue cursed under her breath. Warren had always been their middle man to make sure SHIELD never had any direct contact with the Guild. She had no idea how she would get word of any kind to Fury.

She nodded anyway. "We'll see what we can do. What about you an' Psylocke?"

"My Benz is in the parking garage. It's got some horses under the hood, so we're going to make a break for it."

Rogue bit her lip. "Ya can't outrun sentinels, sugah."

His tone hardened. "They're going to come gunning for us no matter what we do, Rogue. You know that. At least this way we'll be able to draw them away from WI."

She clamped down on the instinctive desire to argue with him. They were X-Men. It was the right thing to do.

"Good luck," she said instead.

A brief smile lit his voice. "If we make it through this, we'll be coming back to you."

Rogue looked up, across the desk into Jean's bright, red-rimmed eyes. "Ya always welcome here, sugah." A new thought crossed her mind. "Where's Jubilee?"

"She went to see Dr. Reyes yesterday. She should still be there, as far as I know."

"Okay, sugah."

Warren's tone turned businesslike once again. "We're headed into the stairwell now. I'm going to lose the signal in just a minute."

Rogue looked back down at the desktop. "Be careful, both of you." A new, smaller knot of fear lodged in her heart next to the giant one that had formed when the Baxter building collapsed.

"We will. Good-bye, Rogue." The line went dead with a hollow click and an echo of digital static.

Slowly Rogue took the phone away from her ear and set the handset down on the desk. She took one deep breath and then another before turning to face the mixed group of thieves and X-Men that surrounded her. Storm had arrived a few minutes earlier with Bishop on her heels. Both were in uniform and the sight of the red X emblazoned on each bolstered her.

Rogue straightened her shoulders. "Warren an' Betsy are gonna head back here if they can get free of the sentinels around Worthington," she told them then turned her focus toward Ororo. "He asked us ta get Fury ta send troops into Manhattan. He's worried about OZT attackin' his employees."

Ororo's blue eyes narrowed at the implication. She gestured toward the television. "People are pouring into the streets, afraid their own buildings will be the next target." The news footage alternated between shots of the massive column of dust and smoke where Four Freedoms Plaza had so recently stood and aerial views of the nearby streets which were now clogged with people. "Warren's employees should be able to lose themselves in the crowd."

"Do you think Bastion will destroy Worthington Industries next?" Marcus asked. He was pale but his gaze and his voice remained steady. By unspoken accord, none of the thieves had yet voiced any kind of acknowledgment that their Guildmaster might very well be buried under a thousand tons of rubble.

"The fact that he hasn't already done so probably means he can't re-task the satellite before its orbit carries it out of position," Bishop said. "He'll have to wait for the next pass."

He received a round of surprised looks at the analysis.

"Ya know somethin' about orbital mechanics, Bishop?" Logan asked in a deceptively mild voice.

Bishop shrugged, his expression sardonic. "I know 'something' about a lot of things, Logan. My father was a firm believer in education." He glanced at the other man then away as if he couldn't hold the Canuck's gaze any longer than that.

Rogue's heart gave a little twinge. It was easy to forget that Bishop had strong ties of his own to Remy, twisted as they might be.

Before she could continue that train of thought, though, the phone rang. That wasn't a terribly unusual event in and of itself, but the techs in the Guild's communication center never put a call through if the Guildmaster wasn't in his office.

For a moment no one moved, but then Rogue tentatively reached out and picked up the hand set.

"Hello?"

"Guildmistress, Guildmaster Lotho is calling from Chicago." The tech's voice was crisp and clear, giving no outward sign of the turmoil churning just beneath the Guild's surface.

"Thank you." Rogue cleared her throat self-consciously as she waited for the call to be connected. She remembered only a few scattered moments from her one conversation with the leader of the American Guilds, but she still felt intimidated.

A moment later Lotho's voice came on the line. "Hello, Rogue." He sounded as grim as she expected.

"Sir." She moistened her lips. "What can ah do for ya?"

"You can answer a few questions for me, though the fact that you're picking up the phone, I suppose, answers the first one." He paused, his voice falling. "Who were the other two X-Men?"

Rogue cut her gaze toward Jean. "Cyclops an' Iceman." She sniffed, fighting to keep her composure.

Lotho cursed under his breath. "Is there any chance they're still alive?"

"Yes, sir." Rogue wished she could sound more certain. "The Fantastic Four have their powers. They're more than capable of survivin' a building collapse."

"All right." Lotho released his breath in a sigh, sounding tired. "We'll just have to hope, then." His tone turned businesslike. "I'm actually making this call on Cable's behalf, and he, in turn, is facilitating a request from SHIELD."

Rogue blinked in surprise. She knew the Chicago Guild had taken X-Force under their protective wing but they really hadn't gotten a sense of how close Lotho had allowed the two groups to get.

She forced her wandering thoughts into line. "We appreciate it, sir. Our normal line of communication with SHIELD is down." The others were all watching her curiously, so she switched the call over to speaker and laid the hand set back down on the desk.

"Patch SHIELD in," she heard Lotho instruct someone on the other end. There was a general shuffle of motion common to teleconferences and a series of electronic pops and then Nick Fury's voice filled the line.

"Fury here," he growled. "Who am I talking to?"

"Cable and Domino from X-Force," Cable supplied immediately.

"An' we've got Storm, Rogue, Bishop, Phoenix, Wolverine an' Mystique from the X-Men," Rogue added. She made no mention of the thieves listening in and was fairly certain Cable knew better than to do so also.

"Who's in charge of the X-Men now?" Fury asked and Rogue guessed that Cable had already passed on the identities of the three X-Men inside Four Freedoms Plaza.

Storm raised her chin. "I am, Colonel."

"Very well. As you're all aware, Bastion has upped the ante significantly by attacking the Fantastic Four." He paused and Rogue could imagine his scowl. "This isn't just a mutant thing any more."

Ororo leaned forward, her expression intent. "This was never _just_ a mutant thing, Colonel. Bastion threatens the most basic freedoms of every man, woman and child in this country and on this planet." She glanced up at the gathered group. "We were merely the first targets."

"Nevertheless," Fury continued, "since Bastion has made clear his intentions to subjugate all of humanity, the President now feels it is necessary to bring the full might of the military to bear against him."

Hot anger made Rogue's chest tighten and she saw similar expression reflected around the room. "Wait a minute. Are ya sayin' that as long as it was only mutants getting' attacked the President figured it was okay ta keep the military out of it?" she demanded.

"No, Rogue." Fury's voice was full of tired patience. "As long as Bastion was willing to keep this weapon out of play, the President couldn't risk provoking its use." He paused to let her absorb that. "The Administration regrets that it meant leaving mutants to their own devices but there were larger issues at stake."

Rogue chewed unhappily on his statement. She didn't like it, but she could imagine how Bastion could have used his weapon to blackmail the President. All he'd have to do is threaten to start blowing up sports stadiums, shopping malls, office buildings… maybe government buildings and national monuments. And she doubted any government entity had the ability to prime and launch a spacecraft before Bastion could destroy it with his satellite. Most governments were notoriously bad at keeping secrets.

That didn't make her feel any better about how mutants had been treated, however.

Logan made a disgusted noise. "So yer still the government's lapdog after all, eh Fury?"

Rogue could nearly hear Fury grinding his teeth. "I do my job, Wolverine. Nothing more."

"So what did ya want ta tell the X-Men, Colonel?" Rogue injected quickly before the conversation degenerated.

Fury was silent for a short moment as if collecting himself. "Brigadier General Adam Byers, U.S. Army, is the man the President has chosen to lead the offensive against Bastion and OZT." Rogue didn't recognize the name, but she hadn't really expected to. Most of the X-Men's dealings with U.S. military forces had been from the opposite end of the gun barrel. Exchanging names had never been high on the list of priorities for either side.

Fury went on. "Byers is one of the smart ones. The President made a good choice putting him in charge. However, the General has been adamant all along that New York is probably the worst possible place to try to mount an offensive."

Rogue's stomach began to sink as she listened. Across the table, she saw Wolverine's eyes narrow dangerously.

"The current plan," Fury told them, "calls for the focus of the conflict to be centered on Washington D.C. The city is already being evacuated. Critical government functions were transferred to secure locations months ago."

Rogue heard a brief shuffle from Fury's end before he continued. "SHIELD is also being recalled to the DC area," he said. He sounded grim now.

The sinking sensation in Rogue's stomach turned into an all out free fall.

"Does that mean we can no longer expect any support from SHIELD here in New York, Colonel?" Storm asked. Her voice was calm, but anger snapped in her blue cat's eyes.

"The President is hoping you will be willing to step down your operation against OZT in order to let him focus his efforts on Washington," Fury replied.

Several exclamations of disgust met his words. Logan slammed his palm down on the table and then turned away, obviously struggling to keep his temper.

"We've been the only ones standin' in Bastion's way all this time," Logan growled. "If the President or anybody else thinks we're gonna step back just because they've finally decided ta join the fight, they've got another thing comin'." Over the phone they could hear Cable muttering something similar.

Ororo reached over to lay a hand on his shoulder. Her expression was one that was usually accompanied by howling wind and deafening crashes of thunder, but her voice remained calm. "Colonel, please convey to the President our deepest regret, but we will not stand down while Bastion's forces remain in control of our city and our world. We will continue to fight—to our dying breaths if necessary—to see Bastion defeated and his suppression field destroyed."

Rogue bit her lip. It was possible the X-Men had begun paying that price already.

There was a short pause. Then, "I told him you would say something like that," Fury answered Storm, sounding oddly pleased.

"What's gonna happen ta Doc Reyes and her people?" Logan asked before Rogue could properly digest Fury's reaction.

Fury's businesslike tone returned. "I intend to keep my command center in Westchester, at least for the time being. The site is secure and close enough to DC by air to support operations there. I see no reason why the scientists can't continue their work uninterrupted."

"An' Jubilee?" Rogue asked.

Fury's voice turned diffident. "My superiors don't know she's here and I see no reason to inform them."

The X-Men exchanged glances at that and Rogue's opinion of Colonel Fury rose a notch.

All the parties were silent for several moments. Rogue had just begun to cast about for some way to close out the conversation when Marcus grabbed her arm.

"Look!" he hissed and pointed toward the television.

Rogue turned, her heart squeezing painfully tight as she took in the image of the Human Torch rising above the level of the rooftops. The nearest sentinel banked sharply toward him, lasers firing, but the Torch released a bright ball of fire that streaked toward the sentinel, enveloping it in white-hot flames. The sentinel's flight turned into an uncontrolled nosedive. It impacted the corner of a tall brownstone building and cartwheeled away in a shower of dislodged bricks, disappearing from the camera's field of view.

The scene captured by the camera wobbled as the invisible operator swung it around and downward. A small slice of street came into view between two buildings, and in it, the remaining members of the Fantastic Four and three black-clad figures could clearly be seen climbing out of a manhole cover to stand, alive and well, in the center of the street.

x-x-x-x

"Much better," Ben declared as heaved himself through the narrow opening and climbed up onto the street. "Now we've got some room to rumble." He smacked one fist into the other palm.

Reed nodded. "Yes. Open air will give us far more freedom to exercise our powers." He gestured to Johnny, who shot up into the hazy air.

A nearby sentinel immediately swung around and began firing on him, but the Torch released a fireball from his hands that promptly knocked the sentinel out of the sky. It slammed into the corner of the building next to them and then fell, bricks raining down along with its burning body.

Scott grabbed Remy's arm and dragged him back, away from the impact zone. Bricks shattered on the sidewalk where they'd just been with a sound like breaking pottery. The sentinel hit a little further away, its body still burning. The smell rolled over them, making Scott cough.

Sue's shield winked into existence around them in a bubble that encompassed both her and Franklin. Mercifully it blunted the stench of the burning body.

Two additional airborne sentinels rounded the corner of a nearby skyscraper. One flew at Johnny while the other aimed straight for the X-Men, its lasers flashing. The bolts dug long furrows in the street and sent chunks of asphalt flying in all directions. Scott flinched as the lasers ricocheted off the shield.

As the sentinel strafed them, Reed stretched upward to wrap himself around its body, dragging it downward. As soon as it came within reach Ben snagged it. He slammed it down on the street and pounded one massive fist into its head. Blood splattered him.

Scott saw the mixture of shock and revulsion that crossed Ben's face and guessed he hadn't really registered that the sentinels wore human bodies. Ben hesitated, fist raised, and stared down at the sentinel.

"Hit it again, Ben," Scott told him. "You've got to destroy all the electronics in its head or it can regenerate." The image of cutting that first sentinel's throat at the final assembly plant flashed to life before his eyes. He sympathized with Ben's horror, but it didn't change anything.

Ben gave him an uncertain glance but nodded and turned back to the sentinel. He flexed his fingers and then hit the sentinel again, twisting his fist until they could hear his knuckled grinding against the pavement.

Above them, Johnny and the other sentinel engaged in an aerial dogfight that sent laser beams and explosive bolts of fire in every direction as they wheeled and dodged.

Bobby watched them longingly. "Man, I wish I had my powers."

His stomach sinking, Scott glanced over at Remy. The thief wore a grim expression that made Scott think his mind was moving in a direction similar to his own.

The Cajun shook his head disapprovingly. "No sense wastin' y' time wishin' f' somet'ing y' can' have," he told Bobby. "Good way t' get y'self killed."

Bobby immediately returned his attention to ground level, his expression disappearing behind the professional mask Scott had seen emerging more and more often.

It saddened him to see, but Remy was right. Getting their powers back seemed farther away than ever now. He looked over his shoulder to where a thickening haze hid any details of the destroyed Baxter building. Dense gray smoke spewed upward from where the building had stood, testifying to the fire that still burned somewhere in the rubble.

Their chance at getting into space had gone down with the building. The death of hope felt like a huge black gulf inside him. Bastion might not even know what kind of victory he'd won today, but Scott was very afraid he'd just sealed mutant-kind's fate.

Pushing despair away, he turned to the other two. "We need to get underground as soon as we can." The warren of passages around Four Freedoms Plaza didn't connect with any of the tunnels leading to a Guild entrance.

Remy nodded. "Where are we?"

"Fifth Avenue," Bobby answered promptly. "Somewhere around 46th Street. I can see Rockefeller Plaza."

"Bien. South, den. Toward de library."

Scott didn't get a chance to reply as four of the CATs loped around the nearest corner. The opened fire as soon as they spied the X-Men. Scott saw Sue grit her teeth as the laser storm pounded their protective bubble. Ben and Reed both dove out of the way then turned to attack the CATs.

"Let's start moving south then," Scott said. "The Fantastic Four are pinned down as long as they have to protect us."

Ben charged the first of the CATs, bringing both fists down on its back and crushing the titanium alloy chassis like so much tissue paper. Then he hoisted the bent creature up by one leg and snapped the laser cannons from its shoulders, tossing them away.

At that, one of the other CATs shifted the focus of its fire from the X-Men to Ben. The laser burst struck him full in the chest, knocking him backwards off his feet. His impact made the ground jump. Ben lay still for a moment and then heaved himself to a sitting position, shaking his head as if to clear it.

Reed had taken the opposite approach. Stretching his body into a long, narrow coil he darted and looped around the CATs, evading their fire. He was managing to keep at least one and sometimes two of the metal beasts occupied, hopefully long enough for Ben to smash the third.

A loud mechanical clanking made Scott look behind him. He stared in dismay as a pair of tanks rolled toward them up Fifth Avenue surrounded by what looked like OZT shock troops. There were at least thirty of them and they were all sentinels. They'd been outfitted with high-tech body armor, it looked like, and their arm cannons were already extended. A contingent of perhaps a dozen CATs followed the tank and behind those came a line of light cavalry vehicles with what Scott guessed were human soldiers.

"Heads up!" he yelled toward the Fantastic Four.

Scott glanced upward in the hopes that Johnny might be able to come to their rescue but he caught only a glimpse of the Human Torch as he zoomed in a wide loop around the top of the Waldorf Astoria with three sentinels hot on his tail.

The tanks opened fire, the staccato cracks of their discharges echoing back and forth between the buildings that lined the street with a sound like thunder. Both shells shrieked toward the X-Men, exploding on impact with Sue's shield. Sue screamed.

The explosion blinded Scott. He was picked up and thrown backward like a rag doll, tumbling helplessly. Heat washed over him, tainted with the sharp tang of the propellant exhaust. He hit the pavement hard, skidding several feet before coming to a stop.

For a moment all he could do was breathe. His ears rang as if someone had stuck his head in a metal bucket and pounded the side of it with a tire iron. He started violently when someone reached down to shake him.

Remy's face swam into view when he opened his eyes. He was caked in a layer of light-colored dust and blood ran down the side of the other man's face from a cut on his scalp.

"Wake up, Scott." His demeanor was as calm as ever, but real fear flickered in the depths of his eyes. "Sue's in a bad way an' I'm out o' ideas."

Remy afraid was enough to jolt Scott to full wakefulness. He sat up abruptly, which made his head throb, and looked around.

For a moment all he could do was stare. Sue had definitely protected them from the worst of the blast. Both of the buildings on either side of the street had been badly damaged. Their outer walls were missing in places, allowing Scott to see into the interior of offices and hallways. Pieces of paper fell from the sky like giant snowflakes and inside the ruined buildings electrical cables sparked. He could hear shouts and screaming and knew people inside the buildings had been injured.

A short ways away, Sue knelt on the street with Franklin protectively clutched to her. Her eyes were squeezed shut and tears tracked down her face, leaving trails in dust that covered her. Bobby knelt beside her, one hand on her back as if he'd been talking to her, but now he simply stared at the approaching tanks.

Scott turned, searching for Ben and Reed. They remained a ways up the street, still engaged with the original set of CATs, which must have gotten reinforcements. Three lay crumpled on the street while the two members of the Fantastic Four battled another three.

He turned toward the tanks. They only had another moment before they fired again and he wasn't certain if Sue would be able to take another hit like that.

Motion near the tops of the buildings caught his attention. A pair of fighters dropped down between the skyscrapers, flying single file through the narrow canyon. They carried racks of munitions under each wing which looked like they'd been designed to be dropped rather than fired.

Scott saw the lead fighter release its munitions over the OZT force just as the two tanks fired again. Helplessly, Scott could do nothing besides flatten himself on the ground in and hope that Sue could take one more hit.

_This is what it's like to be human_, he thought in the moment before the shells detonated. _No wonder they hate us._

The second set of explosions was worse than the first. The world shuddered, filling with fire that somehow didn't get quite close enough to burn. The street heaved and buckled beneath him from the forces diverted by Sue's shield, tossing him into the air. He felt the sting as tiny bits of shrapnel penetrated his armor.

He hit the ground and rolled, eventually coming to rest on his stomach. Smoke and dust filled the air, making it hard to breathe. Coughing he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees and the straightened.

The tanks had been reduced to twisted mounds of metal that belched smoke from the rents in their armor. The CATs, too, looked like children's toys that had been stomped on and tossed away. Very little remained of the human sentinels. Scott saw blood on the street and here and there a scorched body part.

Nauseated, he turned away. Remy was already climbing to his feet. He wasn't putting any weight on his bad leg, Scott noted.

A little further away, Bobby was checking Franklin over for injuries before moving on to Sue, who looked unconscious. The young X-Man had a couple of gashes across the back of his uniform that oozed blood, but otherwise he seemed all right. As he watched, Reed and Ben appeared through the smoke and gathered around the three.

Scott shoved himself to his feet and went to join them.

"We gotta get you X-Men off the street," Ben said as he watched Reed examine his wife. "OZT's gonna throw everything they got at you until you disappear."

Scott nodded. "SHIELD just bought us a little time." He turned to Remy, who limped slowly toward them. "Where do we need to go?"

"Subway tunnels," Remy answered. "Fifth Avenue station. We can disappear from there."

Scott turned back to Ben. "Just get us to the subway."

"We can do that," Reed said, lifting Sue in his arms. "And then we'll see if we can get in contact with Colonel Fury. I'm sure we can be of use to SHIELD."

Ben reached down to pick up Franklin and together the group began moving south along the ruined remains of Fifth Avenue.


	57. Chapter 57

Chapter 57

Remy sighed and leaned his head back against the inclined back of the hospital bed. The ice packed around his ankle had temporarily numbed that pain to a dull throb, making him more aware of the aches that filled the rest of his body. Hank had finished digging out the random bits of shrapnel he'd acquired and stitching, gluing or bandanging the collection of lacerations that went with them. Now Remy was simply resting, waiting for the painkillers to kick in, and acquainting himself with idea that he wasn't likely to die before the day was out.

"Sugah, ya don't look half bad for a man who's had a buildin' dropped on his head."

Remy opened his eyes to find Rogue standing in the doorway, a pile of what he assumed were fresh clothes in her arms. She'd left while Hank was still working on him to fetch something to replace his ruined uniform. She cocked her head, her voice warm, and Remy could imagine her smile.

He summoned a grin. "I'll take dat as a compliment." She had endured the day's events surprisingly well. He'd expected either a tirade or another bout of cold silence once they finally managed to make their way back into Guild territory. Instead she'd hugged him hard enough to hurt and kissed him soundly, then let him lean his weight on her shoulders as they made their way toward the med center.

He honestly had no idea what to make of it, but if there was a thunderstorm brewing somewhere behind his wife's bright demeanor, it was still a long way off.

Rogue chuckled and shoved off the door frame with her shoulder. "Ah brought ya some sweats an' a t-shirt." She raised the pile in her arms, then turned and set the clothes down in the single chair tucked into the corner of the room.

Tucking a lock of long hair behind her ear, she crossed to his side and reached down to take his hand. "How are ya feelin'?"

"Like I've had a building dropped on m' head." He saw her heat signature spike, but the colors remained mild. He went on, his tone souring. "Actually, we got out o' Four Freedoms okay. It was those tanks OZT sent."

She nodded, sobering. "We saw it on the news, sugah." Her grip on his hand tightened and a tiny quaver came into her voice. "It was really somethin', though. Ah think some o' the people in the news room were cheerin' as hard as we were once the smoke cleared an' we could see ya were all right." She gave a little sniff and her voice firmed.

"They're puttin' the casualty count at about three hundred right now, mostly in the area where the tanks were shootin'. Ya should've seen it, Remy. The pundits were all yellin' at each other about whose fault it was that so many people were dyin', an' one of 'em jumped up an' said that he wished the X-Men had their powers back because y'all would have at least tried ta protect the people in those buildings." She paused. "The whole set went dead quiet. Ah don't know if they were all waitin' for Bastion ta blow them ta bits for sayin' somethin' like that, or if it was just such a new idea that everybody needed time ta take it in, but ah'd swear nobody said anythin' for at least a solid minute."

"Wow." Remy stared absently at the far wall as his thoughts turned. _This_ was why Scott Summers was the right man to lead the X-Men. Because he, of all of them, understood that the team's primary purpose was to demonstrate to humanity how mutant powers could be used for the greater good. He understood the cultural power of symbols, and had used the situation with OZT to turn the X-Men into a symbol of hope and of courage for the rest of the world to rally around.

Remy could never have put that kind of public face on the X-Men. It wasn't the way he worked or thought. He was a survivor, with all of the ugly necessity that entailed. Scott, on the other hand, was a dreamer. The kind of man who, in the right time and circumstances, could change the world.

Wincing, Remy sat forward.

"Ya ready ta get out of here?" Rogue asked.

He nodded and reached down to remove the rapidly melting ice packs from his ankle. He flexed his foot gingerly and then swung his legs over the side of the bed. Rogue stepped in to brace him with an arm around his waist as he slid off the edge of the bed. The fabric of her sweater was soft against the skin of his back and her fingers warm on his ribs.

With her help he limped over to the chair to dress. Rogue waited quietly for him, hands clasped in front of her.

On impulse, Remy pulled her into his arms. He buried his face in her hair, breathing in the scent of her. "I'm sorry y' had t' go through dis again," he said quietly.

She snuggled deeper into his arms. "Not your fault, sugah."

He bit his lip. The last time hadn't been entirely his fault, either. There had been some Assassins in there somewhere, too.

He pushed those thoughts away. "I know, chere. Doesn' mean y' weren't scared."

She pulled back just far enough to look into his face. "It helped ta have Jean an' Diedre there." She moved around to his injured side so he could lean on her again. "Ah ain't never been much of a… _girly_ girl, but ah ended up sittin' on the couch with the two o' them an' 'Ro an' Andrea, holdin' hands an' watchin' the news coverage." She brushed her bangs away from her face. "An' it helped ta know ah wasn't alone."

They moved slowly out into the hall. A few doors down, familiar voices rose and fell in quiet conversation. Scott and Jean. Their daughter had announced her arrival to the world not long after the three X-Men hit the med center.

Rogue paused at the open doorway to peer inside. Scott had pulled a chair up next to Jean's bedside and sat slouched comfortably down in it with the baby tucked up against his chest. Remy could see her tiny heartbeat pattering next to Scott's.

Rogue didn't seem inclined to go inside or otherwise interrupt the couple. Instead she stayed out in the hall and watched, hunching her shoulders and wrapping her free arm around herself. He could read a sense of longing in her body language, mixed with uncertainty.

"Ah always dreamed of havin' a little girl of mah own," Rogue finally said. Her voice was small, and it reminded Remy forcibly of just how fragile a thing her hope was. She'd come such a long way from the woman who didn't believe anyone could ever love her—touch her—and yet the spectre of her powers still loomed large over them, bathing the future in shadow.

He summoned a smile and dropped a kiss in her hair. "A lil' girl'd be nice, cherie. I know I'd have fun terrorizin' all de potential boyfriends."

She laughed, sounding startled, and the faintly despondent air surrounding her dissipated. With a light nudge, Remy was able to turn her away from the scene inside the room and together they made their way toward the waiting area

To his surprise, all of the X-Men—including Warren and Betsy—were gathered there along with much of his council and a few other thieves. The room was quiet, weighted down with an unspoken sense of defeat.

Remy carefully schooled his expression. He felt it, too—the gnawing fear that no matter how much they accomplished, Bastion would always be another step ahead of them. But he wasn't about to let that uncertainty show.

"Warren, 'Lizabeth." Releasing Rogue, he put on a smile and crossed the room to shake Warren's hand. "Glad t' see y' made it back in. Any trouble?"

Betsy snorted in dark amusement, evoking an answering ripple in Warren's heat signature.

"My Benz is at the bottom of the Hudson now, but other than that, no," Warren told him. "OZT was too busy chasing you guys to give us much attention."

"What's the status wit' de building?" Remy found himself a seat in a nearby waiting room chair and stretched out his bad leg. His thigh ached fiercely. He would have been limping even without the twisted ankle.

Warren heaved a frustrated sigh. "We're expecting Bastion to bring it down like he did Four Freedoms just as soon as the satellite's back in range." Remy saw him check his watch. "Which should be in about three hours, if the news is correct. At least we got everything critical transferred to other locations."

Remy nodded his understanding and the room fell silent again. He dug his thumbs into the aching muscles of this thigh.

Eventually, Logan cleared his throat. "So, what's the plan now, Gumbo?"

Remy paused and looked up at him. "Why y' askin' me?"

"Because Cyke's distracted, so that means yer it." Logan crossed his arms over his chest as, around the room, heads nodded in agreement.

The reaction startled Remy, though he supposed it probably shouldn't have. He distinctly remembered telling Scott he wasn't going to take any kind of leadership position in the X-Men, but it hadn't occurred to him that the X-Men might have their own opinion about that. And with Scott temporarily wrapped up in family matters, the X-Men were looking squarely at him.

_Jus' when did y' go and get respectable, LeBeau?_ he asked himself wryly.

Gathering himself, Remy straightened. "De plan hasn' changed, Logan," he told the other man in an eminently reasonable tone. "We need a new way into space, true, but dat's all. We c'n start wit' Dr. Reyes an' their contacts at NASA, an' since SHIELD is still cozy wit' de government, we'll hit dem up as well. De Air Force is primarily responsible f' military space programs, so they'd be de ones t' look at."

As he'd hoped, his words produced a stir of interest. After a moment, Ororo stepped forward.

"I will speak to Colonel Fury," she said in her stately, deliberate way. "The Chicago Guild is facilitating our communication with SHIELD using X-Force as the blind, so we should not have any trouble coordinating such an inquiry."

Remy acknowledged her with a smile and turned to Warren. "Lookin' into civilian space launch development'll be yours, eh? As much money as there is t' be made wit' private launch capability, I wouldn' be surprised if there ain' a few projects secretly in development out there somewhere."

Warren tipped his head to the side, his body language thoughtful. "I hosted a banquet honoring Burt Rutan a couple of years ago," he finally said, nodding. "I think I know where to start, at least."

Remy echoed his nod. "Bien." Then he turned his attention to the rest of the room. "In de meantime, we still got plenty o' work t' do figurin' out how we're gon' take Bastion's station away from him once we get there, an' wit' de government lookin' t' take de lead in fightin' OZT here on de ground, we need t' decide if we should keep doin' what we've been doin' or if we can cause more trouble some ot'er way. X-Force an' Excalibur are gon' be lookin' t' us f' direction, too, an' we're gon' need t' know which way t' point them."

He looked around. A few murmurs of conversation had already sprung up as people added their own details to what he'd said and discussed how they needed to proceed. As he watched, the tenor in the room shifted; fear giving way to renewed determination. All they'd needed was a little push.

Satisfied, Remy levered himself to his feet. Logan crossed the short distance that separated them, his body language casual as always.

"Not bad, Gumbo."

Remy snorted. "What? I get a critique now?"

Logan chuckled, sounding amused. "I just call 'em like I see 'em." He clapped Remy on the shoulder. "Regular mornin' meetin' tomorrow?"

Remy nodded. They would all end up in his office in the morning, anyway, to continue hammering out some method for wresting control of Bastion's space station from OZT, so he might as well make it official.

Logan nodded, and with a wave to the room in general, made his way toward the exit. As if that were their cue the rest of the group began to disperse as well.

Wrapping an arm around Rogue's shoulders, Remy followed them out.

x-x-x-x

Scott stifled a yawn as he let himself into the Guildmaster's office. His head ached from a combination of stress and lack of sleep, neither of which was likely to get better for a while. He'd forgotten how demanding newborns were, and waking up every two hours at night on top of everything else was beginning to take its toll on him. At least Remy was sure to have coffee going.

The Think Tank—his personal nickname for the group of people currently gathered around Remy's desk—was in full swing when he arrived. Logan, Bishop, Mystique, Chess and Marcus, along with Remy and himself, formed the core of the group, with others coming and going as needed.

Unfortunately, this morning Scott was only going to add yet another problem to the pile.

"You look like crap," Logan observed as Scott stepped up beside him.

Scott rolled his eyes. "Good morning to you, too."

Remy cracked a grin at their exchange. "What's de word from NASA?" he asked. The reason Scott was running late was because he'd been in the Guild's communication center, on the phone with one of Dr. Reyes' people and a bevy of scientists from Goddard who'd been helping them with the specs on OZT's space station.

Scott ran a hand through his hair, familiar frustration rising up from his gut. "Nothing good, I'm afraid."

He got a round of expectant looks at that and shook his head. "I need some coffee first. Then I'll see if I can explain." He walked over to the wet bar as the conversation picked up behind him again.

Artur entered the office while he was still pouring his coffee. He carried a couple of sheets of paper that he handed off to Chess as he came to a stop.

"Guildmaster, the Bogota Cartel is officially under new management," Artur told Remy while Chess quickly scanned the pages. "The DEA just sent out a memo to the highest ranking members of its Colombian task force."

Remy sat forward, his expression sharpening. "It's about time. Who's de new _jefe_?"

"His name is Montoya. Enrique Montoya." Artur rested the knuckles of one hand lightly on the desktop, the casual stance at odds with his tone. "By all reports, he's young, ambitious and brutal. No one's pointing fingers, but the bomb that killed Villaverde yesterday afternoon went off during his grandson's birthday party. About twenty people died, among them Villaverde's son and his two children, which cleared the way for Montoya to step in."

Remy cursed at that and leaned back in his chair. Scott mentally shook his head. He was no longer certain how to feel about such things. Part of him still wanted to assess blame—Remy had set in motion the events that had just cost innocent children their lives—but it wasn't that simple. As much as he wanted to believe there had to be a better way, he had yet to figure out what that way might have been. And selfish as it was, he was grateful it had been Remy's call to make rather than his own. He wasn't sure he could have lived with the weight of those choices.

Eventually, Remy nodded. "All right. Let's extend an invitation t' Monsier Montoya t' visit New York. I'm sure he promised his new organization dat he'd solve their—" His tone turned sardonic, "–distribution problems."

Logan glanced at Remy from under his brows. "What are ya gonna do if he don't want ta play ball with the Guild?"

Remy shrugged, but his expression was hard. "Let's hope he's willin' t' be reasonable, eh?"

Artur rapped his knuckles lightly on the ancient, polished wood. "I'll make the arrangements, Guildmaster."

Artur turned to leave and Remy shifted his attention to Scott. "So what's de bad news from NASA?"

Scott pinched the bridge of his nose as he refocused his thoughts. "Right." Grabbing an open chair, he sank into it and braced his elbows on the arm rests. "Here's the deal. We already knew that the space station has its own power suppression system. It has to because the bulk of it sits beyond the suppression field emitters and outside the field that covers Earth."

"We're pretty sure we've figured out how to shut the system down, though." Marcus gestured toward the scattered drawings covering the desk.

Scott nodded. "Yeah. The problem isn't the station's suppression system, it's the big one."

Around him, eyebrows rose in silent question. Scott smiled humorlessly. "If I understand the scientists right, the suppression field that blankets Earth isn't perfectly round or smooth. Because of the way the fields given off by the individual emitters interact, the surface of the big field—its edge—has lumps and spikes in it. _And_ it's almost guaranteed that a few of those spikes will overlap the space station."

He watched with interest as the people around him digested the information. Not surprisingly, Remy was the first to deduce where the problem lay.

"Wait, does dat mean we're gon' be subjected t' random loss of our powers while we're up there?" Remy's expression shaded toward alarm.

"That's exactly what it means."

Scott waited for the various exclamations of dismay to die down.

"These dead zones." Bishop leaned forward, his gaze fixed on the station drawings. "They'll be constantly moving in relation to the space station, correct?"

Scott nodded. "The field emitters aren't in geosynchronous orbit, so yes. Something to do with how the Earth's magnetic field affects the suppression field as the Earth rotates."

Bishop looked up at him. "Then can we predict where they'll be at a given time?"

It was a good question, and one Scott had asked as well. He shrugged. "They said they'd try," he repeated the scientists' less-than-satisfactory answer.

"Try?" Chess shot him an aggrieved look.

Scott spread his hands. "It sounded like the math involved was enough to boggle even them, so they didn't want to make promises."

Chess shook his head unhappily but didn't comment further. Scott had gotten the impression he'd finally given up complaining about the risks, though whether that was because Remy kept ignoring him or because he'd finally become convinced of the necessity of what they were doing, Scott couldn't guess.

"So we're gonna have ta be able ta pull this off without powers," Logan said.

Scott gave an equivocal shrug. "We're going to need two strategies—one with our powers and one without—and be able to switch between them as needed." Which was only going to make the job that much harder.

Remy sighed and tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling. "Okay." After a long moment he straightened and focused his attention on Chess and Marcus. "We're gon' have t' start over, gentlemen."

x-x-x-x

Remy couldn't sleep. Vague, restless dreams plagued him, fragmented images of desolation where he was always trapped, alone. Exhaustion dragged at him but every time he started to slip away into the darkness, the dreams came back and he would wake, chest tight and his eyes aching. He had a decision to make, one whose implications for the future frightened him, honestly, but he wasn't sure yet who—if anyone—he wanted to discuss it with.

He glanced over at the woman sleeping beside him. Rogue lay curled up on her side, her ribs rising and falling in the slow rhythm of deep sleep. He envied her peace. Sometimes, it was enough just to slide up next to her, to wrap his arms around her and let her warmth lull him back to sleep.

Sighing, he sat up. Not tonight, though. He felt too restless.

Careful not to disturb Rogue, he slipped out of bed. He grabbed a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and then headed out into the Guild complex. Physical activity was usually a good way to clear his head.

He tentatively pegged the time at around 4:00AM, judging from the relative lack of activity. It had to be late enough that most of the thieves had gone to bed, but early enough that no one else was up and around.

Not surprisingly, there were a couple of people working out in the gym, but they were widely scattered, intent on their own tasks. Noise in the huge room was muted, the sounds echoing oddly in the stillness.

Remy carefully navigated his way toward the balance beams. He could tell the difference between the cement floor of the gym and the mats, which registered a little bit warmer, so avoiding the equipment generally wasn't a problem, but he never knew when someone might have left a gym bag or some other gear sitting where he could trip on it. The need to test each step before he took it made for slow progress, particularly since he had to make sure he didn't _look_ like he was testing his steps.

He was more than a little surprised to find Bishop up on one of the beams when he got there. The big man moved with surprising grace, his steps sure. Remy halted before the other man could notice him, watching with interest as Bishop worked his way through one of the standard balance drills all apprentices had to learn.

The realization sent a little shiver of apprehension through him. Chances were good this was something Bishop had learned as a kid. He continually demonstrated an understanding of Guild ways that Remy was certain pre-dated the X-Men's alliance.

Forcing himself forward, Remy slipped off his shoes and then vaulted barefoot onto the beam beside Bishop's. He wasn't sure if it was serendipity or just plain coincidence, but Bishop was probably the most appropriate person to talk to about the choice he found himself faced with.

"LeBeau." Bishop acknowledged him with a nod. The violent anger and resentment that used to color Bishop's signature any time they interacted had given way to less ugly hues, but the patterns were so confused Remy had yet to figure out exactly what emotions might be driving them.

Remy returned the nod. "Evenin', Bishop. Can't sleep either, eh?" He fell into step with the other man, picking up in the middle of the drill. It had been years since he'd done any of these, but his body remembered the rhythm.

Bishop shrugged. "I like the quiet."

Remy made a generic sound of acknowledgment and for a while they worked in silence. Remy continued to follow Bishop's lead—he seemed to be going through the drills in order of increasing difficulty which suited Remy fine.

Eventually, though, Remy cleared his throat and forced himself to broach the topic that had driven him out of bed this night.

"Y' mind if I ask y' opinion o' somet'ing, Bishop?"

Bishop paused, the tiniest hitch in his otherwise fluid movements. "Go ahead."

Remy took a deep, bracing breath. "I got a prospectus from Dyson recently f' a company dat would be an excellent investment f' New York. It's a Japanese company wit' strong manufacturing capability an' established product lines in a wide range o' industries." He glanced over at Bishop. "It's a fantastic opportunity. De chance t' purchase controlling interest in a Japanese company don' come along all dat often."

The next step in this particular drill called for the apprentice to stand on one leg with the other raised to the perpendicular, and then to hold the pose for as long as he could. Bishop did so, and Remy couldn't help but note just how solid the other's balance was; no twitches, no bobbles, just perfect, smooth motion.

Bishop, he thought with an odd twinge of regret, would have made an excellent thief.

He mimicked Bishop's pose as the other man looked over at him. "If it's that good an investment, what's the problem?"

Remy smiled humorlessly. "De company's name."

Bishop's heat signature flickered with curiosity. "Why? What is it?"

"Fujikawa."

Bishop jerked in surprise and nearly fell off the beam. He recovered with quick windmill of his arms and then turned to stare at Remy, his heartbeat hammering an angry rhythm.

"Stark-Fujikawa was the Witness's company," he said after a moment.

Remy went on to the next step in the drill as if nothing had happened. The discipline of keeping his body under control helped him keep his emotions under control too. "Y' can see why it gave me pause."

Bishop didn't move for several seconds, but then stepped up beside Remy and resumed the drill with him in silence.

Remy briefly closed his eyes as his many doubts surged. "All dis time I've been wonderin' if we were doin' enough t' put de future on a different path. But de longer t'ings go on, de more convinced I get dat _dis_ is de path dat leads t' de place y' come from—everyt'ing we're doin' here."

Bishop stopped again. He sank into a crouch and braced his elbows on his thighs, his heat signature flaring wildly. He tucked his chin as if he couldn't bear to look up at Remy. "That can't be true."

Remy shrugged and abandoned the balance drills for tumbling, which took a lot more concentration. He did a couple of back handsprings and then paused to answer Bishop.

"I can' say whether it's true or not. But t'ink about it. In your time, de X-Men are heroes, right? Martyrs."

Bishop nodded without turning to look at him.

Remy went on. "But here de X-Men have always been hated by jus' about everybody. De government hunts us, regular people call us freaks. Even de ot'er teams t'ink we're too extreme sometimes. But now look at what's happenin'." He gestured upward to indicate the larger world beyond the complex. "Suddenly de X-Men are de rallyin' cry f' de entire world. What happens if we actually _win_?"

Bishop scrubbed his face with his hands, obviously disturbed. "We can't let Bastion stay in power."

"Oui." Remy took out his frustration about that on the beam in a hard-hitting series of flips that made the narrow surface vibrate with each landing. "I know dat. But now I got dis prospectus f' Fujikawa sittin' on my desk an' it's really got me wonderin' about where we're headed."

"So don't buy it." Bishop looked up at him. "That would be an obvious break from the known history. Something different from my time."

"Is dat really de answer?" Remy returned. "De Stark in Stark-Fujikawa almost has t' be Tony Stark's company, so what happens t' de Avengers? An' de Fantastic Four? What if dat monster conglomerate is an alliance like dis one wit' de X-Men, an' de best hope mutants have f' overcomin' de circumstances dey in durin' y' time?"

Bishop rose to his feet. "Tony Stark has always favored mutant control measures. He was intimately involved in the development of the mutant registration laws of my time."

The big man drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I don't think it was an alliance. I was just a child but I think the Witness took over Stark Industries by force, maybe in an attempt to take away his power base." He shrugged helplessly. "But it was too late."

Remy digested the information, feeling cold. How was he supposed to know what to do?

Bishop's signature wavered, betraying a sense of uncertainty. "Have you said anything to Scott about this?" he finally asked.

Remy made a vague gesture. "Don' know if I should. Scott does better when he's sure what he's doin' is right, non?"

Bishop shook his head sharply though Remy wasn't entirely sure what he was trying to convey.

"Y' t'ink I should tell him?" Remy finally asked.

"No." Bishop made a ninety degree turn on the beam and resumed the balance drill at the point he'd left off. "It wouldn't change what we have to do now."

Remy watched him, his thoughts churning.

"Growing up, I hated you," Bishop said abruptly though he didn't pause as he moved through the end of the drill and into the beginning of the next one. He didn't look at Remy.

Remy blinked in surprise. "I kinda figured dat, given y' decided t' go into law enforcement," he finally answered, letting a note of wry amusement creep into his voice. "Lot o' sons o' thieves choose not t' become t'ieves themselves, but to become a _cop_… dat's a statement."

Bishop snorted. "Yeah."

"Guess I prob'ly gave y' reason," Remy hazarded.

Bishop paused to look at him, but quickly turned away. "Any more, I don't know." His heat signature rose and fell, violent upheavals of emotion in a wide range of colors. "In retrospect, I think the Witness was just so old and bitter… He didn't have anything left but the war."

A tight lump lodged in Remy's chest, making it hard to breathe. This was the future he had to look forward to.

Bishop paused one more time and turned to face him across the short space between the beams. "I don't know how this works—if my presence here influences the future or if the future is fixed and this is just a part of how things have always been—but if nothing else, perhaps you can take forward the knowledge that I did eventually understand." His voice dimmed to a near whisper. "Father."

Then, as if he couldn't face Remy's reaction, Bishop leapt lightly down from the beam and strode away, leaving Remy to stare after him.


	58. Chapter 58

Hi all,

Sorry this took so long. School and work (and kids!) are taking up a lot of my time. But hopefully this is worth the wait :-)

Enjoy!

Valerie

Chapter 58

Scott tugged uncomfortably on his bowtie as he surveyed the Club's late evening crowd. He absolutely hated wearing a tuxedo. The collar was always too tight and it itched intolerably.

Ororo squeezed his arm. Scott glanced over at her only to find her smiling her rare, little girl's smile at him. He raised an eyebrow in silent question and she shrugged.

"I have not had occasion to wear a dress since we were here to meet Trish Tilby," Ororo said. With one hand she smoothed the fall of her long skirt. She was dressed in a sleeveless evening gown of pale pink, with a soft wrap draped around her shoulders. Her smile deepened. "I have missed it."

"We're not here for the party," Scott reminded her. As second-in-command of the X-Men, Ororo was his date for the evening and they had work to do.

Her impish smile widened. "Spoilsport."

Scott chuckled despite himself. "Come on." He tugged lightly on her arm, taking them out into the throng.

They moved slowly, trying to look like part of the crowd. A waiter stopped to offer them champagne and Scott was startled to realize he recognized the young man as one of the Guild's apprentice thieves. The man gave no sign of recognizing them, however, and as soon as they'd each taken a flute from his tray he moved on.

"There's Rogue." Ororo nodded toward a point ahead of them.

Scott followed her gaze. He spotted Rogue easily. She stood near the center of an open area between the craps and blackjack tables, chatting animatedly with a small group of people. She glittered as she moved, the diamonds at her throat and in her hair casting sparks of rainbow-tinged fire in all directions.

Scott smiled fondly. "She's really come into her own, hasn't she?" he asked Ororo. Letting her marry Remy had seemed like such a bad idea at the time—not just for the horrendous personal price her choice entailed but for the path it would put her on.

"Yes." Ororo stared at Rogue, her expression thoughtful. "I must admit I was… concerned… but she seems to have found her balance. I was afraid she would not."

Scott gave her a curious look. "What do you mean?"

Ororo shrugged, her brows drawing together in a troubled frown. "She did this for Remy, to save him, and for that reason I could not argue against it." She glanced at him as if gauging his reaction to the admission. It didn't surprise Scott. He knew she loved Remy deeply, with the same fierce loyalty the thief seemed to inspire in everyone who managed to get close to him.

Ororo let go of Scott's arm to adjust her wrap. "Not many people can choose to live their lives for someone else and truly be happy that way," she said after a moment. "I feared what would become of them if she could not find her own life here in the Guild."

Scott nodded his understanding. Rogue seemed to have found a cause beside her husband in protecting the mutants of the Guild, and he was honestly happy for her.

Ororo took his arm once again and Scott turned them toward the center of the Club.

"Let's find Remy and see what the CIA could possibly want with the X-Men," he said. Through Remy, the Agency had requested a meeting with the X-Men's leadership. It made Scott nervous, but Remy didn't seem concerned.

As they worked their way through the crowd, Scott took note of the little knots of serious conversation sprinkled throughout the room. Usually, he recognized at least one person in the group as a senior New York thief. The really funny thing was that, in a couple of cases, he was pretty sure he knew what the conversations were about. Marcus, for example, was chatting with a straight-laced sort who almost had to be one of the curators for the Smithsonian. The museum had been making cautious overtures toward the New York Guild to retrieve several artifacts that had been stolen from one of their restoration labs.

The rumor Scott had heard was that the new Guildmaster of New York was far more likely to accept a contract to return something to a museum than to remove something from it, assuming the museum had legitimate ownership. Among the thieves such things seemed to be viewed as a matter of philosophy rather than morality, which Scott found a little hard to get his head around. Still, to each their own, he figured. He certainly wasn't in a position to judge.

They found Remy seated at one of the tables near the bar with Artur beside him. A third man Scott didn't know lounged in a chair directly opposite Remy, his body language casual though his eyes never stopped roving the room. Scott put the man in his early forties, with thinning, sandy-colored hair and dark, puffy circles beneath his eyes. He didn't look like a typical government agent. He was too ordinary.

All three men looked up as they approached. Unsurprisingly, their attention immediately focused on Ororo and she treated them to one of her gracious smiles.

Remy stood, his motion smooth and precise. He shook Scott's hand then leaned over to kiss Ororo on the cheek.

Artur and the other man rose behind him. Keeping hold of Ororo's hand, Remy stepped aside and gestured to Scott.

"Agent Dodson, meet Scott Summers and Ororo Munro of de X-Men," he said.

Scott swallowed his instinctive protest. Remy wouldn't have given their names unless the CIA agent already knew them, and he wondered if the Professor had known just how much of an open secret his X-Men were in governmental circles.

Scott pushed the thought away as he and Ororo exchange greetings with Agent Dodson, and then the entire group took their seats.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me," Dodson said once the general shuffle had died down.

Scott cocked his head to the side. "I have to admit I'm curious what the CIA could possibly want with us."

"It's not what we want." Dodson reached inside his coat and drew out a manila envelope, which he laid on the table. "It's what we have to give you."

Scott exchanged glances with Ororo and Remy. The agent didn't wait for their reactions. He flipped open the envelope and slid out a set of grainy photos that looked like satellite images. Turning the pictures around, he slid them across the table toward Scott.

Scott picked up the topmost picture and studied it. Beside him, Ororo spread the others out on the table. The images appeared to be of some kind of large explosion at a complex of industrial, gray-roofed buildings.

"These were taken two weeks ago," Dodson said. "This is Jiuquan, China."

"What happened?" Scott asked without looking up from his examination.

Dodson laced his fingers together on the table in front of him. "Bastion blew up the last known launch-ready vehicle capable of taking people into orbit, is what happened."

Scott looked up sharply. After destroying Four Freedoms Plaza and then Worthington Industries, Bastion had seemed content to let the world return to something close to normal. If he'd been destroying spacecraft, he'd been doing it quietly.

"How do you know it was the last one?" Ororo asked, her blue cat's eyes reflecting the same alarm Scott felt.

Dodson gave her a humorless smile. "We're the CIA, Ms. Munroe."

"What about Cape Canaveral?" Remy asked. "We haven' seen any news about Bastion blowin' up de Space Center."

"And hopefully you never will." Dodson leaned back in his chair. "There are two shuttles there and a partially complete Ares rocket—all of which are in their hangars more than a mile from the launch facility. The Air Force keeps the hangar doors open except for weather so Bastion can see that they haven't moved." His expression soured. "There's no physical way to get either vehicle out and transport it to the launch stand without OZT having several chances to blow it to smithereens. I don't know if you've seen the crawlers they use to move those things around, but they're slow beasts."

Dodson sat forward again. "The U.S. wants to keep its space launch capability alive. We can't afford to be unable to reach space once Bastion is gone."

Remy nodded his understanding and Scott echoed him.

Scott looked at the photos again. "So why bring this to us?"

Agent Dodson shrugged. "We figured you'd want to know." The look he shot the three X-Men seated at the table held a wealth of unspoken meaning. "And because, unless you mutants have another trick up your sleeve like the Fantastic Four's little construction project… I guess we're all screwed."

Scott stared at him as a lead weight of dismay coalesced in his gut. Word of the Fantastic Four's rocket had leaked out once clean-up crews had started working to clear the rubble from the Baxter Building site. The good that had come of it was that the Fantastic Four had suddenly become the celebrities of the hour, diverting attention from the X-Men. The bad, of course, was that it had focused world attention on the idea of going into space to take down Bastion's satellites.

They had seen news coverage of a couple of failed attempts. Russia had launched a series of ballistic missiles at the satellite ring which had prompted Bastion to destroy missile silos in countries all over the planet. Thankfully, his methods had resulted in the missiles being buried inside their silos rather than setting off the nuclear warheads most of them carried.

The European Space Agency had actually gotten a manned rocket off the ground from its launch pad in Kourou, French Guiana. For days the news had been full of reports of the successful launch.

What had happened to the capsule it carried and the astronauts on board after that, however, no one seemed to know, but after several weeks without any change in the suppression field hopes had run dry and the story had faded away.

"No offense, Agent Dodson," Scott said quietly, laying the picture he held back down on the table, "but if we did have another plan in work, I wouldn't tell you about it."

The agent cracked a smile at that. "I wouldn't expect you to. Like I said, I'm here to give information." He began gathering up the photographs and putting them back into their envelope.

"Tell your bosses that we appreciate it," Scott said, keeping his expression neutral.

Dodson nodded, tucking the envelope back into his jacket. "Will do." He rose and extended his hand to Remy. "Mr. LeBeau, thank you again for arranging this meeting. It's always a pleasure doing business with the Guild."

Remy stood, too, and shook his hand. "Likewise, Agent Dodson."

With a silent nod for Ororo, Agent Dodson turned away from the table and began making his way through the crowd toward the door. Remy watched him go for a moment then turned back to the table. He leaned his weight on his hands and regarded the three of them solemnly.

"Now what?" he asked and Scott could only shake his head.

"I don't know, Remy. I just don't know."

x-x-x-x

Jubilee had never considered herself much of a computer geek, but in the past few weeks she'd discovered a surprising talent within herself. All of the work she and Louis had done to investigate and understand the software in her head had paid off. Not only had she been able to rewrite that dangerous override code table in her brain but she was turning into a fairly competent programmer.

_Not to mention a hacker_, she thought with a mental snort. Colonel Fury hadn't wasted any time putting her newfound abilities to work for the cause. Today she was strapped into the back seat of a specially-equipped F-18 flying combat operations just off the coast of Virginia, where OZT forces were engaged in a pitched battle with the Nimitz and Harry S. Truman carrier groups. Her job—beyond not barfing into her flight mask as the fighter twisted and rolled—was to infiltrate and disrupt the sentinels' communication net if she could.

She wondered just how furious Logan would be if he knew where she was and what she was doing.

"How're you doing back there, Honey?" the F-18's pilot asked, his voice tinny from the radio distortion. The SHIELD people seemed to have adopted "Honey" as her official nickname, particularly once they realized how much she hated it.

"Just peachy," she answered with a sarcastic thumbs-up for the pilot, whose helmet had "FLASH" stenciled across it in black letters.

Flash reached up to fasten his mask across his face. "Good, 'cause we just got the signal to go in. Better hold on tight."

Jubilee's stomach clenched and then tried to climb up her throat as he rolled the fighter over onto its back and dove straight toward the earth.

The atmosphere, she'd discovered, was a really big place. They could fly back and forth forever without intersecting the sentinels' focused-beam communications. They had to get down close to the ground—"on the deck" the pilots called it—before she stood a decent chance of finding their transmissions.

Of course, OZT tended to shoot at them when they did that.

As if her thoughts had conjured them, bright laser bolts and tracer fire from a couple of ground-based anti-aircraft guns lit the sky around them. Their fighter shook violently from the flak as Flash maneuvered. She could just barely hear his voice over the roar of the engines, but she wasn't tuned to the frequency he and the other pilots used to communicate with each other and the carriers.

Jubilee squeezed her eyes shut. With what had become a familiar kind of mental switch, she opened up the sentinel part of her mind. The world around her suddenly became just one of many layers of information that she could use at will. Her first action was to establish contact with the F-18's communication and navigation system. The fighter could receive signals at a far greater distance than she could, so its systems worked as a kind of amplifier for her.

Schematics flashed to life behind her eyes—a virtual representation of all of the forces currently present in the combat theater. Jubilee tried to ignore them, though her combat systems came online automatically in response. Targeting solutions attached themselves to the myriad icons and the familiar burn filled her arms.

She concentrated on listening for the burst-like transmissions characteristic of the sentinels' net. Like a massive, invisible spider web, the beams criss-crossed the sky. When she flew through one, she would receive the data only for as long as she was within the beam itself, so it seemed like a sudden flash of information that disappeared just as quickly as it came.

They hit a beam and the information poured into her, whiting out her awareness of the cockpit and the motion of the airplane.

"Got it," she told the pilot.

The surge of data was gone again just as fast, but it was enough. She didn't try to interpret any meaning from what she'd gotten, but instead used it to calculated the beam's path through the air, which she then broadcast to the fighter's navigation system. The beam's path would then be displayed on Flash's panel and he would do his best to fly them along it.

"Looks like a good one," Flash told her. "Inclination's only a couple of degrees. We can do that for as long as you want." Some of the beams speared upward into the sky on a path too steep for the fighter to follow for more than a minute.

G-forces shoved against Jubilee's chest, making it hard to breathe as Flash rolled into a sharp turn. They came around a full 180 degrees and more then leveled out. OZT's forces continued to fire at them. Jubilee reacquired the beam as he slid the fighter neatly into its path.

One of the first things she and Louis had worked on was breaking down her identity string and the rest of the hello packet she sent to other sentinels, in order to understand what the information meant. Once she'd figured out how to start overwriting her own code, she'd also been able to modify her hello packet data and anything else in her own transmissions. The end result was that she could identify herself as a different sentinel than what she was. And once inside OZT's communication net, Colonel Fury had all kinds of ideas about how she could wreak havoc. They'd done a couple of practice runs already, so she was sure she could get in, but she'd never done anything with the access until now.

Earlier in the day she'd used a fake sentinel identity to query several sentinels in the Virginia coastal area. Now, armed with the IDs of a handful of sentinels that were guaranteed to be present in the current battle, she could get inside their communication net without challenge.

Something exploded close to them. The fighter bucked, throwing Jubilee against her restrants, and Flash swore. The fighter swerved out of the beam and then rolled back into it. Frightened, Jubilee wrapped her gloved hands around the harness straps and held on.

"Better hurry up, Honey," Flash called to her over the cockpit radio. "Somebody's gotten a bead on us."

"Roger that," she answered in a voice that didn't sound much like her own.

Forcing herself to concentrate, she opened her mind up to the sentinels' communication beam. Information poured over her in a flood and this time she struggled to take it in, sort it, understand it well enough to navigate her way to what she wanted. It was like being on foot in the middle of an intersection of major highways, watching the cars flash by and trying to figure out how she was going to get from where she was to the top of that overpass _over there_ without getting pancaked by the traffic.

What she needed was a general broadcast message—something that was sent to all of the sentinels in the area. OZT's command network would send out updated data packages containing the locations of each of their assets as those positions changed to keep the sentinels from accidentally firing on them.

She had to wait nearly thirty seconds for the update, but it came and rearranged all the icons on her mental map. That wasn't the information Jubilee was interested in, however, so she ignored it. She wanted the authentication string that told the sentinels this was valid data being sent from their own command network.

To get it she had to do a little digging into the layers of her communication protocols below what she consciously registered. Around her, the fighter rocked alarmingly.

"Any time now," Flash told her tersely.

Jubilee opened her mouth to answer him, but before she could utter a sound something slammed into the fighter, staggering them. Flash swore as several alarms started blaring in the cockpit.

"We're hit, we're hit," she heard him saying over the radio. The fighter started shaking violently and the rush of the air around them turned into a roar. They were still in the beam, though. She continued to receive data from OZT's net.

Terrified, Jubilee clung to her seat harness and tried to finish building the general broadcast message she was supposed to send.

"We're going to have to punch out, Honey." Flash's voice echoed through her helmet speakers. "Do you remember what to do? Knees together, arms crossed over your chest."

"Wait!" she protested. "I just need a minute."

"You've got until the count of three," he answered. "One."

Shoving her fear away, Jubilee finished packaging the message and appended the authentication code.

"Two."

_All sentinels, initiate shut down sequence per maintenance directive 604.55 revision B,_ Jubilee sent out into the communication beam.

"Done," she told him.

"Three," Flash said. "Here we go."

Jubilee clamped her knees together and crossed her arms over her chest, grabbing hold of the harness straps, and tucked her chin as far as she could. The explosives beneath her seat went off with a bang that sent her shooting upward. She felt like she was being crushed into her seat by the force of the acceleration. The canopy shattered around her and then she was out in the slip stream with the Eastern Seaboard spread out beneath her like a wrinkled brown and green blanket. Off in the distance she could see a pale stripe of sandy beach and the blue-gray ocean beyond. She was too high up to feel like she was falling.

The fighter streaked away below her, trailing thick black smoke from one engine. A moment later she saw Flash's ejection seat thrown upward on a thin pillar of flame from the rocket motor beneath it.

Heart pounding she tried to look upward. _C'mon chute, open,_ she thought toward it.

A few moments later, she got her wish. Big white parachutes unfurled from the top of her seat, jerking her upward before settling into a nice, swinging descent. She saw several fighters make long, looping tracks around her position. Further out, something small exploded in a flash of orange and with a start she realized it was a sentinel. She could see more of them, hardly more than dark specs in the sky. They were all descending toward the earth feet-first as they obeyed the command to shut down, seemingly unaffected by the fighters swarming around them.

Jubilee whooped in savage glee as the fighters began launching their air-to-air missiles, destroying one sentinel after another. Tears burned in her eyes. Bastion was going to regret ever letting her go.

x-x-x-x

Remy looked up in surprise as Jean walked into his office. It was still fairly early in the evening as thieves reckoned things, but not for the mother of a new baby. Remy hadn't seen Jean out and about this late in several months.

For the last couple of hours, he, Scott and Logan had been talking over where the resistance ought to go next, now that getting into space was out of the question.

They hadn't gotten very far. Even though SHIELD, in cooperation with US military forces, had scored several recent victories against OZT, it was hard to overcome the despondence—the despair—that had overtaken all of them. Remy increasingly felt the temptation to pull his people back and let the Guild go dark to keep them safe. He wasn't sure how many more lives he was willing to risk if they had no chance of truly taking OZT down.

Jean crossed the room to where the three of them were seated on the black couches. Her heat signature flared unevenly, making Remy both curious and a little apprehensive. Jean didn't get upset easily, but whatever she was thinking about had sent her emotions into a jagged dance.

"Hi there," Scott said as she came up behind him, his tone warm and tinged with curiosity. He reached up over his shoulder and she twined her fingers with his. "Where's Haven?" They'd named their daughter Haven Elise.

Jean shrugged. "Rogue's watching her for me." Her tone was uncommonly solemn. She paused, her heat signature swirling brilliant and harsh before subsiding again. "I told her I was hoping to take you out for a cup of coffee and some adult conversation, but mostly I just wanted to make sure she wouldn't happen by while the four of us are talking."

Remy's gut tightened in instinctive reaction to her tone and he saw similar reactions in both Scott's and Logan's heat signatures.

He stared at her suspiciously. "Why wouldn' y' want Rogue around, chere?" He'd thought she and Jean were fairly close friends, but Jean's behavior made it clear this wasn't some sort of surprise party deception.

She turned toward him, the mottled colors of her face making it impossible for him to gauge her expression. "Actually, I'm guessing that _you_ won't want her around, Remy."

"Jean, what are you talking about?" Scott sounded completely mystified. Remy was as well, but his instincts were starting to scream in warning.

Logan growled low in his throat, echoing Remy's feelings.

With an aborted sigh, Jean nodded. She let go of Scott's hand and came around the end of the couch, but instead of taking a seat next to him she settled on the edge of the coffee table, facing the three men. She leaned forward, bracing her elbows on her knees and clasped her hands together in front of her.

"I think I know a way for us to get into space," she said abruptly.

The words went through them all like a lightning bolt. Remy straightened, his sudden flare of excitement warring with an impending sense of doom. Something in Jean's behavior was badly off.

"What?" Scott demanded. "How?" He obviously felt the wrongness, too. His tone was harsh.

Jean didn't seem offended. She stared at her husband, her heat signature a mix of nervousness, fear and firm resolution. "It'll come at a price, Scott," she said, her tone filled with wordless warning.

Scott stiffened. "If you're trying to scare me, you're doing a good job," he answered.

She nodded. "Sinister's tesseract can take us to the space station," she said.

Remy froze. A hard blast of terror slammed through him followed by rage as he realized where she had to be going. He immediately schooled his expression to a blank mask, but his heart began to pound.

Jean turned her head to look at him as if reading his reaction and in that instant he was certain she intended to ruin him in the name of destroying OZT. The betrayal cut deeper than he expected, like a cold knife in his chest.

Logan reared off the couch, his hands closing into fists at his sides. "Ya want ta make a deal with _Sinister_?" Real anger lit his signature.

Jean straightened, unintimidated. "He has reason to want mutants to get their powers back, just like the rest of us. I think we can convince him to help us."

Logan's heat signature rippled with disgust but Scott regarded her thoughtfully.

"That's… a really good idea, actually," Scott said after a moment. He turned to Remy. "What do you think?"

Remy clung desperately to his composure. He could not afford to let them see how badly Jean had shaken him. He cleared his throat to buy himself an extra moment, but before he could find his voice, Jean spoke.

"There's a catch, Scott."

Scott turned back to her and Remy could imagine his frown. "What do you mean?"

She gestured vaguely in Remy's direction. "I said it would come at a cost."

"Everything's got a price when it comes ta Sinister," Logan injected. He paced a short track between the coffee table and the couch, his signature flickering unhappily.

Jean nodded. "More than the usual." She sighed, sounding tired. "The long and the short of it is that Sinister has some very potent blackmail material in his possession, and given the situation he will almost certainly use it to damage the X-Men as much as possible."

Scott gave her a quizzical look. "Blackmail? On who?"

Remy gathered his wits. "Me." He sent Jean a dark, scathing look. "Guess y' got de grand tour after all, eh, chere?" He'd always suspected—always feared—what she might have seen that day inside his mind.

"Yes, I did," she answered, unperturbed. "Look, if I thought there was any other way I would never have said anything."

Her words hung awkwardly in the silence that followed. Bitterness threatened to swamp Remy. It was all going to fall apart. Jean had just kicked out the underpinnings of his life and now all he could do was try to manage the collapse.

Scott rounded on Remy. "Just what did you do?" He sounded oddly exasperated.

"Scott!"

"Not'ing I particularly want t' talk about," Remy grated.

Scott ran a hand through his hair. "Well, unless you're going to tell me you're a closet pedophile or something, I don't quite see why I would care."

Taken aback, Remy could only stare at him. Finally, he shook his head.

Scott snorted. "I didn't think so." He looked at Jean. "I have a hard time imagining anything that could be as bad as you're making this sound." Despite the bold words, his voice held a note of uncertainty.

Remy looked down at his hands. "Y' never were very big on imagination, mon ami," he said quietly.

Scott's heat signature flickered and began to darken as the import of the words sank in. Beside him, Logan's outline flared with harsher colors and the first stirrings of suspicion.

"How bad are we talkin'?" the Canuck demanded after a moment, his attention focused on Remy.

"It's a train wreck," Jean answered before Remy could come up with a response. "And the only way to keep Sinister from using it against us is to put it out in the open and deal with it now."

Remy could only shake his head. "Dat's easy f' you t' say."

"Better a low speed collision in our own rail yard than letting Sinister derail us at the time and place of his choosing," she shot back.

Remy barked a caustic laugh. "Nice train metaphor, chere."

"Why thank you. I worked on it all day." Her tone mimicked his.

Scott held up his hands as if to separate them. "Enough, both of you."

Remy bit back a sarcastic comment and forced himself back under control. Scott leaned his elbows on his knees and stared at the ground for a long moment.

"This is it, isn't it?" he finally asked Remy, his tone solemn. "Whatever Sabretooth was hinting at, what nearly drove Rogue insane when she absorbed your memories…this is it, right?"

His heart pinching at the mention of Rogue, Remy nodded. He felt like he couldn't breathe.

Logan rocked back on his heels as he regarded them. "Gambit's always had good reason fer keepin' his secrets," he said. Remy imagined the other man watching him from under his brows, his gaze piercing.

"I know that as well as anyone," Scott answered him with a wave of one hand. "Just look around us."

Scott shifted in his seat and turned back to Remy. "Is Jean right?" he asked plainly. There was no compromise in his tone, but, to Remy's surprise, no condemnation either.

Remy wanted to lie to him, but he knew it was far too late for that. He'd wanted to live that day he'd fought Michael, and this was the price he paid for it.

Bobby had once asked him what he believed, what code he lived by. _Love wit' all y' heart, protect y' friends an' family, an' survive, no matter what, so long as the first two are kept safe_, he'd answered the young man. It was the first truly honest thing he'd ever told Bobby, and the words still echoed. As much as it would hurt, knowing the truth would protect the X-Men from Sinister's manipulations.

Remy had always told himself he would leave the X-Men before it ever came to that, but he didn't have that option now.

"Oui, she's right," he finally told Scott. He couldn't look at Jean.

Scott blew his breath out in a long sigh and tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling. He was silent for nearly a minute, but then he straightened and turned to Remy. "Let's put out some feelers and see if Sinister is willing to discuss cooperating with us, first. This may all be moot."

Remy stared at him, thoroughly startled by his attitude. "Would y' really be willin' t' drop it if Sinister says no?"

Scott cocked his head in a way that made Remy think he was on the receiving end of a narrow stare. "I trust your judgment," he said finally, "and I trust Jean's. If you both tell me we're better off not knowing, I'm willing to believe you." He paused significantly. "I'd also like to believe you're willing to trust me that much, as well, if the opposite turns out to be true."

To that, Remy had no answer.


	59. Chapter 59

Chapter 59

The X-Men gathered in the Guild council chambers, their conversation muted. Scott could feel their curiosity like an electric current arcing through the room, but it was tempered with a healthy dose of uncertainty. Scott couldn't help but feel the same. Like them, he'd gotten used to the idea of Remy as the other cornerstone of the team's leadership and the idea that today's events might undermine that structure made him nervous.

Rather than take the seat at the head of the table, Scott had opted to sit near the middle. Hopefully that would encourage more of a team environment—the meeting of a collection of equals. Remy opted to take a seat directly across the table from him. He was dressed in one of the expensive suits that had become his norm, but he slouched in his chair, legs extended in front of him and ankles crossed. He stared blankly at his feet, the red eyes distant.

Rogue sat beside her husband, her expression worried. Several seats away, Mystique watched the two of them, her white, pupiless eyes narrowed. She had her arms crossed and tapped the fingers of one hand against her bicep in an uneven tattoo.

Jean was the last to arrive. She'd wanted to feed Haven before they started, and now had the baby snuggled into her arms, fast asleep. Scott couldn't help but smile at his daughter as Jean sat down in the empty chair beside him, but the smile faded a notch when he looked up into his wife's face. He wasn't sure how he felt about Jean's role in all of this. She'd broken Remy's confidence without apology, if not without remorse. It revealed a ruthless side to her that he didn't see very often.

The room grew silent as the X-Men turned expectantly to Scott. He cleared his throat.

"Well, I suppose we all know why we're here," he began. "Sinister has agreed to meet with us to discuss using his tesseract to get us to the space station." He looked around, gauging their reactions. "What price Sinister is going to ask for his help we can only guess at this point, but what we do know from past experience is that he'll use the opportunity to hurt the X-Men just as much as he can."

Heads nodded around the table. They all knew Sinister's ways.

Scott went on. "As I explained yesterday, it turns out that Sinister had some damaging information in his possession that both Jean and Remy think he will probably use, given this opportunity." Scott had pieced together the reason the night before as he lay in bed, unable to get his mind to shut down enough to sleep.

He smiled humorlessly. "Though Sinister values the X-Men as a gene pool, he will certainly view our alliance with the Guild as a threat. He may help us, but he'll do everything in his power to weaken us in the process." And discrediting Remy was probably the most damaging thing he could do. The same fear Scott had felt sitting in that hospital room, wrestling with the knowledge of what would happen if Remy died on them, rose up inside him.

He cleared his throat again, shoving the fear aside. "So with that, I guess I'm going to turn this over to Remy." He nodded in the thief's direction. Remy didn't acknowledge him. He continued to stare blankly at the ground, his expression bleak.

Jean straightened in her seat, careful not to disturb the baby. "If you don't mind, I'd like to make a couple of prefacing comments first," she said, glancing between Scott and Remy.

Scott wasn't sure which of them the question had been directed toward, but since Remy seemed to be ignoring all of them, he nodded. "Go ahead."

Jean spent a moment gathering her thoughts and then looked around the table, her expression set. "You all know that I came by this information when I was inside Remy's mind two years ago. I was trying to save his life, so I can't honestly say I'm sorry for what I did—" Her gaze settled on Remy, who looked up. "But I don't want anyone to think I'm claiming some kind of moral high ground here. I'm not."

She shook her head. "Invading someone's mind that deeply is a horrible thing to do. Imagine driving steel pilings into the ground to reinforce a skyscraper that would otherwise collapse." She shrugged uncomfortably. "It's violent and brutal and leaves scars behind, and the fact that the only other option would have been to stand back and let him die doesn't change how ugly it is."

She and Remy stared at each other for a long moment before Jean broke away, dropping her gaze. "That's all I wanted to say."

Scott nodded in acknowledgment and turned back to Remy. The Guildmaster didn't move for several long seconds, but eventually he stirred.

"Y' got a suggestion f' where y' want me t' start dis?" he asked Jean, his voice as expressionless as his face.

She shrugged. "Start with your powers going out of control."

Scott jerked his gaze back to Remy, thoroughly startled, and saw similar expressions reflected on the faces around him. Even Rogue's. He didn't remember ever hearing any mention of Gambit losing—or having once lost—control of his powers, though it certainly put the other man's attitude toward Rogue's issues with her powers into a new light. Maybe Remy's behavior toward her during their tumultuous dating relationship had had more to do with understanding where she was coming from and less to do with wanting to get into her pants than Scott had thought.

Remy nodded. "D'accord." He looked up at the ceiling, seeming to gather himself, and when he finally spoke his voice had a reflective quality.

"It's been… almost seven years now. I'd just turned twenty-three an' I was in de last stages of earnin' m' master's mark. Was workin' non-stop." He paused. "I started gettin' power spikes—jus' sudden surges, no warnin'. At first I ignored it—figured it'd go away—an' I was too busy t' really pay attention. But it didn' go away. It got worse. So once I'd gotten m' mark I decided t' see about findin' a doctor who could tell me what was goin' on."

"And you picked Sinister?" Warren asked, sounding incredulous.

Remy shot him a dark look and shook his head. "I made a list o' folks t' research—known experts in de field. Oui, Sinister was on it, but so was Hank." He inclined his head in Beast's direction. "An' Moira McTaggert, t' name a few."

Hank cocked his head thoughtfully. "I don't remember you ever contacting me," he said after a moment.

Remy's eyebrows flickered in the equivalent of a shrug. "De X-Men c'n be hard t' track down."

Hank absorbed that. "And Dr. McTaggert?"

Remy's expression hardened. "Once I found out what de Proteus Chamber was, she went straight t' de bottom of m' list. I didn' much fancy de idea o' gettin' locked away inside dat t'ing while she tried t' come up wit' a solution."

"The Proteus Chamber?" Hank asked in surprise, which Scott silently echoed. The Proteus Chamber was a last-ditch protective measure meant to contain highly dangerous mutants who posed a significant threat to the population at large. What could possibly have made Remy think Moira might use such extreme measures on him?

Remy seemed to understand their confusion. He shifted his position, slouching a little further down into his chair. "Maybe I should back up an' explain how m' powers work."

A ripple of reaction ran around the room, a collective sharpening of interest. More than finding out what Remy's connection was to Sinister, the promise of witnessing their resident enigma unraveled was enough to captivate them all.

Remy looked around the room, taking in their reaction. His gaze settled on Hank. "As de good doctor is fond o' explainin', all mutants dat have some kind o' energy-based power have t' absorb dat energy from someplace else. Dey don' manufacture it." He gestured toward Scott. "Dey absorb it from de sun, de atmosphere, de food they eat, other people, whatever."

Hank nodded. "The law of conservation of energy: energy can be neither created nor destroyed. It can only be changed from one form into another."

"In my case," Remy continued, "de energy I use comes from breakin' de molecular bonds dat hold various molecules together."

Hank leaned forward and pushed his glasses up on his nose. "Really? How fascinating. I assume the catalyst is in your blood, correct?" He watched Remy eagerly as he talked. "Given your escapade with that poison the Assassins Guild cooked up, I must conclude your blood was somehow able to break the molecules down into their component atoms, rendering them harmless."

Remy nodded, a faint smile ticking one corner of his mouth. "Oui, Hank. Dat's exactly how it works. M' blood will attack anyt'ing it perceives as a contaminate, break it down like you said. It's automatic. Even wit' my powers active I can' make it stop."

"But without the damping field you do have some kind of control of it," Hank said.

Remy nodded again. "I c'n increase de rate an' density. Force de charge t' spread outside m' blood, through m' body an' into whatever I'm touchin'."

Hank gave him a contemplative stare. "Doesn't that mean you're effectively destroying your own cells if you're tearing the molecules they're made of apart?"

Remy's expression turned rueful. "Technically. But we're talkin' about breaking up one molecule out of every million. T' strip de energy out o' _all_ de molecules in somet'ing would take a lot o' time an' effort. Plus, I'd have t' do somet'ing wit' de energy. Discharge it somehow. I don' have any way t' store it."

"So why did you tell everyone that you could only charge inorganic things?" Scott asked, trying to keep the accusation out of his voice.

Remy frowned lightly. "I never said dat. Somebody made de assumption an' I didn' correct them is all."

Scott shook his head. That was Remy all over, but it was still annoying.

Hank didn't seem to share his feelings. "What would happen if you burned up all of the contaminates in your blood, like you did with the poison? Would your charge power still function?" he asked curiously.

Remy shook his head. "Nope." A light of amusement came into his eyes. "But it's easy enough t' keep a regular supply o' nicotine an' alcohol in m' blood so dat's usually not a problem."

Rogue turned to stare at him as, a few seats away, Bobby began to chuckle.

"That explains so much about you," Bobby said, which earned him an answering grin.

The grin faded as Remy turned to his wife. "I know y' don' like de cigarettes, but I ain' gon' be quittin'," he told her.

Her response was an irritated little snort, but the expression in her eyes remained friendly. "An' ah still reserve the right not ta kiss ya if ya taste like an ashtray," she said.

Scott sat forward. "This is all very interesting, but I think we're drifting off topic."

Remy shrugged, his momentary levity vanishing. "Anyway, m' powers started spikin'," he said. "It got bad after a while, an' I started worryin' dat I was gon' blow m'self up… o' somebody else."

Something in Remy's tone caught Scott's attention and his stomach sank. "What happened?" he asked in dismay.

Remy paused, pain flickering across his face. He took a deep breath and seemed to shrink into himself.

"I was in Seattle," he finally said. "Met Essex there t' talk about m' powers. He ran some tests, did some imaging of m' head. Said give him a few days t' look at de results." Remy gestured vaguely. "I was at loose ends, so I ended up hookin' up wit' an' old friend who lived out there. She was big on supportin' de arts, so we got tickets f' whatever was playin' at de local theatre."

Remy paused again. His gaze unfocused and he blew out his breath slowly. "We were jus' sittin' there," he said after a moment. The words sounded like a protest.

His brow knitted. "One minute I was watchin' de play and de next… _blam_, dis huge power surge, like t' burn me up from de inside out. I swear I tried t' pull it back in." He looked up at Scott, his red eyes haunted. "I t'ink de concussion from de blast knocked me out f' a few seconds 'cause I don' really remember de explosion. When I opened m' eyes, I was lyin' in dis big empty space, 'bout twenty feet across. There was ash everywhere." He paused, watching his memories. "Outside dat circle, I could see de rows o' theatre seats an' de people in them, all black an' charred. Inside it, everyt'ing except me just got… incinerated. Two-hundred eighty one people died."

Scott stared at him in a mix of sympathy and horror. It was every mutant's worst nightmare.

"I remember seeing the news reports about that," Warren said after a short pause. "It was described as a mutant terrorist attack."

Remy shook his head wearily. "Non, it was jus' me."

Ororo reached over to take his hand. "It was an accident, Remy. You cannot blame yourself." On his other side, Rogue laid her hand on his arm.

Scott saw his fingers tighten around Ororo's. "I know, padnat."

Scott forced his voice to function. "What did you do?"

Remy shrugged. "I went back t' see Essex an' told him what happened."

The thief didn't seem to have any trouble reading the alarm his statement generated. He made an equivocal gesture. "I knew he was dangerous, not t' mention jus' plain scary, but he's still probably de best in de field when it comes right down t' understanding how an' why mutations work."

Scott glanced over at Hank to gauge his reaction.

Hank frowned. "Unfortunate, but likely correct," was the doctor's assessment. Hank adjusted his glasses and turned to Remy. "What did Sinister say?"

Remy's expression turned caustic, though Scott didn't immediately fathom why. "He said it was pretty normal f' mutant powers t' change over time because people's experiences, de skills they practice an' de use o' their powers all cause de brain to keep growin' new neural pathways. Most o' de time, de changes t' powers are small an' positive—better control, new applications, et cetera."

Out of the corner of his eyes, Scott saw Hank nodding in unconscious agreement. "And in your case?" Scott asked.

Remy cocked his head, the acid in his tone intensifying. "Essex said it's a whole different ball game when it comes t' omega mutants. F' one, because there ain' enough o' dem t' make any kind o' generalization, an' two because—at least in a very small sample—it seems t' take more than one area in de brain t' generate o' control dat much power."

Scott stared at him in shock, unable to completely process the words. "Omega?" he finally managed in a strained voice and heard his question echoed around the room by the other X-Men.

Remy flashed a tight smile. "Surprise."

"That doesn't even begin to cover it," Scott told the other man. He glanced over at Jean, feeling oddly betrayed, but she just raised her eyebrows.

He turned back to Remy, anger stirring in his chest. "So, just after the damping field went active, when I asked about the extent of your powers did you just omit this little detail?"

Oddly, Remy didn't get angry in return. He shook his head. "Non. You've pretty much seen de extent o' my powers."

Scott opened his mouth for a heated comment on the contradiction in his words, but Remy beat him to the punch.

"Y' want t' hear dis story o' not?"

Chastised, Scott sat back in his chair and raised his hands, palms out. "Sorry. Go ahead." Around them, the other X-Men's expressions ranged from surprise to curiosity to suspicion and back again.

Remy ran a hand through his hair. He looked very tired all of a sudden. "Sinister's hypothesis was dat, in usin' m' powers at their alpha levels, I'd eventually grown de neural pathways needed t' tap into dis next level o' power. He… collected some o' de remains from de theatre, tryin' t' figure out exactly what happened."

Remy made a loose fist with one hand and rested it against the edge of the table. "It turns out dat, not only c'n I break de molecular bonds an' strip out dat energy t' convert t' an explosive charge, wit' dis other area in m' brain I c'n also break de atomic bonds holdin' protons an' electrons an' such together."

Remy looked over at Hank. "Hank, what do de physicist call it when y' start tearin' atoms apart on a mass scale?" he asked in a deceptively mild voice.

Hank blinked once and then his eyes widened. "Oh my stars and garters." He stared at Remy. "Fission."

"What, like a nuclear bomb?" Bobby asked, his gaze darting between the two.

Remy nodded. "Exactly like a nuclear bomb, only wit' no idea how it's triggered an' zero control." He pressed his lips together in a thin line. "De only reason I didn' wipe Seattle off de map is because I didn' quite have full access t' my powers yet. So it was two hundred people instead o' two million."

Scott could only shake his head in mute horror, imagining what kind of destruction Remy could have caused. A dozen questions tumbled through his brain but none of them seemed like the right question to ask, so he kept his mouth shut and waited for the thief to go on.

Rogue leaned her elbows on the table and covered her mouth with both hands. Her green eyes were shadowed with the same horror Scott felt, but also filled with recognition.

"Sinister fixed it, didn't he?" she asked, her voice muffled by her hands.

Remy glanced over at her. "F' a price."

At that, Bobby groaned and flopped back in his seat, crossing his arms. "I'm not sure I even want to hear the rest of this." The look he gave Gambit was filled with defiance. "It's not going to change anything in my book."

Remy stared at him for a long moment, a quiet kind of yearning in his gaze. "'Preciate de vote o' confidence but it's a little too early t' be makin' dat call, mon frère," he finally said.

Bobby made a dismissive noise in the back of his throat, seeming unimpressed.

Rogue folded her hands and rested her chin atop them. "What did Sinister want, sugah?" she asked quietly.

Remy looked over at her and then away. He flexed his fingers a couple of times as if gathering his nerve and then finally spoke.

"In exchange f' isolatin' and severin' de neural pathways t' cap m' powers at alpha level, he said he wanted a job done."

Scott raised an eyebrow, uncertain how he was expected to respond. "That seems like a fairly obvious trade to make with a world class thief," he ventured after a moment. What Remy might have procured for Sinister was a rather chilling thought though.

Remy shook his head without looking at him. "Not dat kind o' job."

Scott paused. "Oh."

Remy sighed. "He wanted a group o' people killed," he explained bluntly. Dismay flickered on faces around the room.

Scott's stomach clenched, but instead of anger he simply felt cold. "Did you agree?"

"I wasn' in much of a position t' argue." Remy dropped his gaze to Scott's and his eyes were empty and bleak, just like that night at the sentinels' factory. "I told Essex dat as long as they were legitimate targets, I'd do it."

Remy heaved a sigh. "Anyway, Essex did de surgery an' I started doin' research an' puttin' together de team f' dis job. Sinster bankrolled everyt'ing—outfittin', facilities, travel—cost wasn' an issue. He said he didn' care how much, so long as I got de job done." He glanced at Scott once more. "It turned into a pretty big operation. Wasn' easy findin' people wit' de right skill sets, an' even harder t' get dem onboard."

He paused abruptly, something like panic flashing across his face before disappearing again. He looked down at his hands. "Sabretooth was de hardest. There's enough bad blood between us dat he didn' wan' work f' me regardless o' how good de money was. Riptide an' Vertigo weren' quite as bad—they'd come f' de money, but de two o' them together have de attention span of y' average five year old. Keepin' them on track was a full time job. Arclight was pretty professional, at least. She helped keep de rest in line. Harpoon an' Scrambler were okay, too." He closed his eyes, shoulders sagging. "An' Scalphunter was actually a friend o' mine, once upon a time."

Scott felt the blood drain out of his face as Remy talked. Those names conjured such a flood of horror and pain, and filled his head with the echoes of screams ringing through dark stone tunnels.

On the far side of the table, Warren shot to his feet, his wings unfurling in an angry hiss of feathers. "The _Marauders_? You made the Marauders?" His face was purple with fury, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Do you know what they did to me?"

Remy looked up at him and nodded slowly. "I was there."

The room exploded at his statement. X-Men were on their feet, demanding explanations. Logan's claws unsheathed in a small splatter of blood, his growl lost in the din. Rogue simply stared at her husband, her eyes wide and her face pale, and on Remy's far side Ororo recoiled in shock.

The noise woke Haven, whose tiny wail broke through the clamor and brought a measure of silence to the room. In the sudden quiet, Jean shushed the baby, tucking her blankets more securely around her and rocking her gently.

Logan pointed the claws of one hand toward Remy. "Ya helped murder the Morlocks." Rage and disbelief colored his voice in equal measure. "They were just innocent folks. They never hurt anybody."

Remy shook his head, his expression thin. "Ot'er than buildin' de team, I didn' have anyt'ing t' do wit' de Morlocks," he said. "De first I knew of it was when Sabretooth stuck his claws in m' gut." His hand went to his stomach and the scars Scott knew were there. "One minute I was standin' at de intersection o' tunnels an' de next I'm lyin' on de ground an' Creed's leanin' over me, lickin' m' blood off his claws an' tellin' me Sinister changed de plan." He gave Logan a sharp look. "De Marauders left me there, an' a few minutes later de screamin' started."

Scott didn't have the faintest idea how he ought to feel. He was appalled to find out Remy had played a role in the deaths of the Morlocks, that he'd brought together and trained a team that consistently drew blood from the X-Men whenever the two groups clashed, but he also understood how hard it was to hold onto one's soul when dealing with Sinister. That man was as close to evil incarnate as anyone he'd ever met.

The faces of the other X-Men reflected similar thoughts. Even Warren, though he paced sharply back and forth behind the chairs on the far side of the table, had a grudging understanding written in his expression.

"Wait a minute. Time out." Bobby held up his hands in the shape of a 'T'. He looked around the table, stormy emotions churning in his blue eyes, before his gaze settled on Remy. "None of this makes any sense." His tone was challenging.

Scott looked at him in surprise. "What do you mean?"

Bobby straightened and turned to Scott. "First off, I can't imagine any circumstances under which anyone would classify the Morlocks as _legitimate_ targets," he said, ticking the point off on his fingers. "Even a sociopath like Sabretooth wouldn't call them that."

He glanced at Remy, whose was watching him with an odd light of approval in his eyes.

"And two," Bobby continued, his expression growing hard, "if you are going to kill off a group like the Morlocks, you toss a couple of canisters of sarin gas down there and wait a while. You _don't_ spend who knows how much time and money training up a team like the Marauders. It's stupid."

Scott stared at him in surprise for his analysis, but he couldn't argue with it. What Bobby said made sense and it raised a whole host of new questions. Logan, too, looked like his thoughts had turned down a new and unexpected path.

Scott reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. His thoughts felt like they were spinning, chaotic and ungrounded. Somehow, he was certain, all of this had to fit together into some kind of coherent whole, but at the moment he had no idea how.

Remy inclined his head in Bobby's direction. "Very good, Bobby," he told the other man softly. Pain edged his tone, but the compliment was obviously genuine.

Bobby acknowledged him with a nod of his own and a faint smile. "I had a good teacher."

Scott's thoughts continued to spin as the two men stared at each other. A little detail from the story Remy had told them lodged suddenly in his mind, and he turned quizzically to the thief.

"So what were you doing down there in the tunnels if you weren't after the Morlocks?" he asked.

Remy's head snapped around so fast he knew he'd hit something important without realizing it. Spurred by that realization his thoughts churned forward, following the chain of reasoning even as the knot in his stomach tightened. "There's nothing else down there."

Remy's face closed in on itself. He seemed to brace himself and watched Scott expectantly.

Scott hardly noticed. His thoughts pounded inside his brain, drumming a warning message. _Stay away_, it said. _You don't want to know this_. But the chain of logic was already in place, the final pieces falling into line with terrible finality.

Scott stood up so abruptly that his chair toppled over backwards behind him. He stared in horror at Remy.

"There's nothing else down there," he repeated softly, "except the back entrance to the mansion." His voice didn't sound like his own. "You built the Marauders to kill the X-Men."


	60. Chapter 60

Chapter 60

"No way." Bobby took two steps away from the table, hands knotted in his blond hair, then spun back to face Remy. "_No way._"

Scott was having a hard time catching his breath. He felt like he'd been punched in the stomach.

Then the distinctive sound of guns being drawn from their holsters shattered the stillness. Scott wasn't sure who moved first, but in the blink of an eye Mystique and Remy were both on their feet, guns trained unerringly on each other. Scott instinctively shifted to his right, to better shield Jean and Haven.

"Let's not do dis, Raven," Remy said, clear warning in his tone.

With a low growl, Logan took a step forward. A second handgun appeared in Remy's left hand, its muzzle pointed at the middle of Logan's chest. Logan paused. Remy didn't take his eyes off Mystique, but Scott was pretty sure that, even left handed, Remy could drop Wolverine before he made it across the table. Without his powers, Logan was just as killable as the rest of them.

Cursing, Logan drove one set of claws into the table top and glared at Remy.

Mystique adjusted her grip, her finger tightening on the trigger. "So tell me," she began in a dangerous voice, "was my daughter an exception or were you planning to kill me as well?"

Pale, Rogue looked between the two of them.

Remy's flat expression didn't waver. "Have y' forgotten we were supposed t' meet in Toronto de day after?" he answered Mystique.

Her eyes narrowed. "You never showed."

"Sorry, I was busy tryin' not t' die."

If anything, her gaze got harder. "My lucky day, then."

Scott gathered his wits. Moving slowly, he reached over to lay a hand on Logan's shoulder and squeezed. With a hooded glance in his direction, Logan retracted his claws and Remy slowly lowered the weapon pointed at him.

"Mystique, put the gun away, please." Scott tried to make his tone calm but firm.

The eerie eyes shifted to his face then back to Remy. Scott watched her jaw work as she struggled with her decision, but then she took her finger off the trigger and tossed the weapon down on the table with an exclamation of disgust.

Remy expelled a long, slow breath as he returned both of his weapons to their holsters. Beside him, Rogue recovered Mystique's weapon and cleared it. She set the gun back on the table but pocketed the clip and the chambered round. Then she sat down in her chair, her gaze fixed straight ahead.

Scott looked around the room, taking stock of his team. "Everybody, take a deep breath," he advised as he took in the frightened, angry stares.

There was a shuffle, a faint, general relaxing of people's postures.

When he was satisfied there wasn't likely to be any more immediate violence, Scott turned to Remy.

"Explain."

Remy snorted. "Explain what, exactly?"

Scott's chest tightened. "How about how you went from taking a contract to _kill_ us to where we are now, for starters."

Shaking his head, Remy collapsed bonelessly into his chair and stared at Scott. "Sinister violated de terms of de contract, renderin' it void as far as I'm concerned." He shrugged, a bare flicker of motion. "Essex don' quite see it dat way, but dat's his problem."

"Okay." Scott decided to leave the question of how Sinister viewed their agreement for another time. The confirmation that Remy considered the contract dead was enough for the moment. He had more pressing questions. "So what happened then?"

Remy gave him a reproachful stare. "Not'ing happened. I went back t' m' life."

"And in the mother of all coincidences you just happened to land in the X-Men?" Scott couldn't keep the suspicious edge out of his voice.

Ororo turned to Remy, her blue eyes full of accusation. "We did not meet by accident, did we?"

Remy looked between the two of them, his expression clouding. "Non, chere," he finally answered Ororo's question. "I heard a rumor, thought it sounded an awful lot like de X-Man Storm an' figured I'd go see f' myself."

Scott leaned forward. "Why?"

Remy shifted his attention to him and the haunted look came back into his eyes. He sighed. "I was lookin' f' a way in t' de X-Men," he admitted softly.

Logan growled deep in his throat, making the hair on the back of Scott's neck prickle.

"Why?" Scott repeated. His throat had gotten so tight he could hardly swallow.

Remy tipped his head back and closed his eyes. When he straightened, his expression had disappeared behind an emotionless façade. "Because," he said flatly, "Cerebro can only be hacked from de inside."

Before Scott could do more than draw an angry breath, Remy sat forward. "Don' y' get it, Scott? Dat computer had de most complete mutant database anywhere, except maybe Sinister's files, an' I was lookin' f' information _on_ Sinister. Anyt'ing dat would make sense out o' what he did. Why create de Marauders an' den not use them? Why kill de Morlocks? An' why _me_?"

The intensity in his gaze gave Scott pause. Remy didn't seem to notice as he went on. "I swear t' y' dat I wasn' plannin' t stay. Was jus' gon' get de information on Sinister an' get out. Wasn' even gon' give y' m' name."

The fervor drained out of him just as quickly as it had come and Remy slumped back into his chair. He braced one elbow on the chair's arm and covered his eyes with his hand.

Strangely, Scott's anger began to abate. "So why didn't you?" he asked after a minute. "Why'd you stay?"

Remy uttered a strangled laugh. "Because de Professor said his X-Men were a family." He lowered his hand, bitterness shining from his eyes. "An' he tol' me I had a place f' as long as I wanted it."

In the absolute silence that followed, Remy seemed to collect himself. His gaze went from Ororo, who looked away, to Bobby and finally to Rogue.

He levered himself to his feet. He reached out to stroke Rogue's hair and she looked up at him, her expression fierce and her eyes wet with tears.

Remy let her go and turned to face Scott. From the inside of his lapel he pulled a small pin, which he tossed down on the table. It clattered across the polished wood, the sound unnaturally loud in the stillness, and rolled to a stop. The X-Men's emblem glinted softly in the light.

Remy adjusted his suit jacket, looking uncomfortable. "I should go. I got work t' do." He started to turn away then turned back, meeting Scott's gaze. "Whatever y' need me t' do regardin' Sinister, I'll do. Jus' let me know."

Then, with a little hitch of his shoulders, he turned and walked away.

x-x-x-x

Remy walked as fast as he could through the stone hallways without drawing undo attention to himself. His stomach heaved and twirled in a nauseating dance. It was over. Done.

_Should've walked away years ago,_ he reminded himself, but the thought did nothing to ease the pain.

People greeted him as he passed, to which he would nod and mumble some kind of response before hurrying on. Bile rose in the back of his throat. He needed to get someplace private.

"Guildmaster, I have a couple of new inquiries for you to look at…" Artur began as Remy entered his office.

Remy didn't slow. "In a minute," he told the other man. "I need t' change." He continued across the office at full stride, ignoring the curious looks he drew in his wake. It wasn't the greatest excuse, but it would do.

He pushed through the heavy door into the apartment he shared with Rogue. As soon as the door began to close behind him, he broke into a run. His stomach heaved and the taste of bile intensified, searing his throat.

Staggering, he made it into the bathroom and vomited into the toilet. His membership in the X-Men was officially over.

Shaking, he sank to his knees and closed his eyes, resting his forehead against the cool porcelain. He couldn't let the Guild see this. The last thing he could afford was to give his detractors further ammunition to use against him, particularly now that he couldn't count on the X-Men to have his back.

For a while he simply concentrated on breathing. With each inhale, he forced the muscles of his shoulders and chest to relax; with each exhale he pushed the pain down, locking it away.

When he'd regained control of himself he climbed to his feet. With a grimace he flushed the toilet and then went to splash water on his face and rinse his mouth. Then he went into the closet to change.

That proved to be harder than he expected. Rogue's presence was everywhere. He stayed away from her side of the closet—away from the soft sweaters and sleek gowns he loved to explore and the little clutter of perfume bottles whose scents brought back too many good memories to bear.

Even choosing a tie became an exquisite form of torture. Every week when things came back from the cleaners she would go through them with him to make sure he knew where everything was. His suits he could generally tell apart by feel, but his shirts and especially his ties were too similar for that. So she would carefully hang each one up in its proper place, her voice rising and falling in a comfortable cadence as she named their colors.

He dressed as quickly as he could and got out of there. Back at the door to the apartment he paused to take a couple of breaths and then let the cool, unflappable exterior he wore as his working persona slide into place.

Straightening his shoulders, he walked back out into the office. It wasn't even noon yet, so he opted for coffee instead of scotch and then made his way over to his desk.

"So, y' said there were some new inquiries?" he asked Artur as he settled in his seat.

"Yes, Guildmaster," Artur answered with a nod. "Do you want me to summarize them?"

"Please." Remy took a sip from his coffee as Artur launched into a detailed accounting. Remy forced himself to pay attention and not let his thoughts wander away from Guild business toward the gaping hole inside him where the X-Men had so recently been. He'd committed his life to leading this Guild—to protecting these people to the best of his ability. He owed them his best, and he couldn't allow his personal losses to affect that.

This was his future, the life he'd chosen, and it was all he had left.

x-x-x-x

"I can't believe you knew and never said anything, Jean." Warren stood across the table from Scott and Jean, leaning his weight on his hands as he stared at them. He had his wings mantled, reminding Scott of a hawk. A couple of seats away, Bobby slouched in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest and his heels propped on the edge of the table while beside him Hank meticulously cleaned his glasses.

After Remy's abrupt departure, the X-Men had slowly dispersed until only the original five remained. It seemed fitting somehow… and strange, too. None of them had been X-Men at the time of the Massacre. They'd worn the label X-Factor in those days. And though they'd been just as involved as the X-Men in efforts to save the Morlocks, they hadn't been residents of the mansion.

They hadn't been on Remy's hit list.

Jean looked up at Warren, her jaw set in a stubborn expression Scott recognized. "It was privileged and he wasn't a threat," she said.

Warren straightened. "Not a _threat_?"

"Warren—" Jean began heatedly.

Warren raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I know." He ran one hand through his hair, his expression tired. "I know."

"We'd all be dead now if it weren't for him," Scott reminded him.

Warren threw him a dirty look. "Ironic, isn't it?"

Scott shifted his shoulders, searching for a more comfortable position in the hard-backed chair. "To put it mildly."

After he'd gotten over the initial shock, Scott had cautiously settled into a state of pained acceptance. He had a hard time comprehending how a man could go from deliberately setting out to kill a group of people to putting absolutely everything he had on the line to protect them, but on the other hand, it epitomized everything the Professor had believed and taught.

It did make him wonder if the Professor had known what he was getting them into when he invited Remy to join the X-Men. A suspicious little voice in the back of his mind also questioned whether the Professor had perhaps scanned the man a little deeper than he'd claimed, to have offered Remy the one and only thing that could have made him stay.

But that was a question he could ask the Professor once they got him back. Right now he had to make sure his team wasn't about to disintegrate.

Scott looked over at Bobby. "You haven't said much."

Bobby glanced up at him. "Not much to say." He looked over at Warren. "You do realize Worthington Industries gets a pass from the Guild, don't you? As long as the Guildmaster of New York says you're off limits, no one is going to touch WI."

Warren crossed his arms, his expression thin. "I'd gotten that impression."

"He's been keeping an eye on Worthington Industries ever since he joined the X-Men, I think," Bobby said. "Trying to make sure nothing bad happened that he could see coming."

Warren spread his wings, flight feathers extended and quivering. "And that's supposed to make up for what happened?"

Bobby's eyes narrowed. "What do you want, Warren? Remy never set out to hurt you. He took a contract because he didn't have much choice, and the X-Men _are_ legitimate targets. We don't take personal offense every time someone sends a hit squad after us, do we? Especially not at the agents. If anything, we go after whoever sent them." He stared defiantly at Warren.

Flicking his wings out of the way, Warren unfolded his arms and yanked his chair out from the table, collapsing into with a grating sigh. "I get it, Bobby. I understand the man better than you think—maybe better than you do. I make decisions every day that affect a lot of people's lives." He made a vague gesture. "A division of the company isn't making money so we reorganize or we shut it down. Either way, people lose their livelihoods, sometimes their homes, their hopes."

His expression hardened. "I _deliberately _flaunted my presence at our corporate center here in New York, knowing that it could end badly—knowing that it could get some of my employees killed or cost them their jobs here. The gains—for the company as a whole and for the resistance—were worth the cost." He gave Bobby a sharp stare. "I understand when it's not personal."

Bobby's eyebrows arched sharply in surprise, but Warren didn't seem to notice. He heaved a weary sigh and turned to Scott. "I just hate having to bring all this back up." Warren shot Scott a glance filled with a pain that the other doubted he'd expressed to very many people. "Every time I think it's finally _over_—that I'm done with that chapter of my life—something like this happens and it all comes back again."

Jean slid her hand across the table to take his, squeezing it sympathetically, and Warren gave her a flickering smile.

Scott shifted his attention to the last member of their group. "Hank?"

The blue-furred mutant resettled his glasses on his nose and looked up. "Am I required to have an opinion?"

Scott blinked, nonplussed. "Well, no, but it seems kind of unlikely that you wouldn't," he finally answered.

Hank flashed a faint smile before sobering once again. "I have been thinking about Remy's mutation, actually." He folded his hands on the table in front of him. "Sinister's solution was both immediate and effective, but quite possibly shortsighted."

That got Scott's attention. "What do you mean?"

"Seven years ago we were only starting to map out what parts of the brain are primarily involved in controlling mutant powers. Sinister probably was ahead of us there. And, as he concluded, most mutants only have—and only need—a single control center. Some mutants do have more, particularly if they have multiple or highly complex powers."

He nodded toward Jean. "Jean has two—one that controls her telepathy and one that controls her telekinesis. They're physically close together and highly integrated, which is reflected in the integrated nature of her powers."

Hank returned his attention to Scott. "You yourself have experienced the effect that a change in the brain—in this case the head injury you suffered when you were young—can have on mutant powers."

Scott nodded, uncertain where he was going.

"Because of the nature of your injury," Hank went on, "and because you only have a single control center regulating your mutant power, there is, unfortunately, little chance of your brain recovering that control function. Remy, however, is a very different case. It's quite possible that his brain may someday reroute the neural pathways Sinister severed and restore his powers to their optimal level."

Scott stared at him in dismay. Then he shook his head. "Never mind. We'll worry about that if and when it happens." They had far too much to deal with already.

Instead, he returned to their original topic. "Do you have anything you want to offer about the man as opposed to his powers?"

Hank shrugged. "Not really." He sighed heavily. "I must confess I am somewhat… affronted, personally. And embarrassed, perhaps." He looked down at his hands as he talked. "Among my colleagues I am considered one of the foremost experts in the world on mutants and mutant powers, but what good is that if the mutants who need help with their powers do not—or cannot—seek me out?" He raised his head, his blue eyes troubled. "It is difficult to hear that Sinister is more accessible than I am."

Bobby reached over to lay a hand on the other man's shoulder. "Don't be too hard on yourself, Blue."

Hank reached up to pat his hand, but his gaze was on Scott. "Remy is perhaps one of the most dangerous mutants we have ever encountered, and we should thank our lucky stars that Sinister didn't really want the X-Men dead." He looked around the room. "But imagine how different things might be now if he had been able to come to us—to myself and the Professor—when he first began losing control of his powers." His gaze turned piercing. "How many more like him are out there, desperately needing help and not knowing that there are people like us who truly want to help them?"

Scott didn't have an answer for him. If they ever managed to get their powers back, a lot of things would need to be re-examined. OZT had remade the team into something vastly different from the X-Men of old, and they would take those changes with them into the post-OZT world.

He looked around the table, suddenly struck by how little anger he saw. A year ago he would bet the X-Men would have demanded a vote, venting their pain at the situation at the easiest target. But OZT had stripped away the sense of entitlement they'd unwittingly developed—the idea that they could force a clean victory out of any situation. That they could stand for something without making hard choices, and that it was possible to wage a war without hurting people.

Scott nodded to himself. Remy had done the best he could, given his background and the situation. The results were horrendous, and the repercussions he was certain would echo through the team for a long time, but that was just how it was. They would deal with it and go on.

x-x-x-x

Remy managed to take up the rest of the day with Guild business—first with the overflowing paperwork that plagued him and then with training. Putting the apprentices through their paces was simple enough that he could keep his focus on it, and if he was a little harder on them than usual, no one found reason to comment on it.

He delayed as long as he could before heading home. After releasing the apprentices, he spent a couple of hours doing strength exercises on the rings, until his shoulders burned and every breath felt like a thousand needles stabbing into his lungs. After so many months without his powers, he was beginning to feel the effects of being a smoker. If they couldn't stop OZT he might very well have to quit now that he couldn't use his powers to break down the tar in his lungs.

The door to the Guildmaster's suite had been designed not to open silently. The hinges squeaked a little and a purpose-made strip along the inner edge of the door scraped against the frame. The noises were small—designed to wake a Master thief if someone tried to enter unannounced—but enough that he doubted he could sneak inside if Rogue were awake. Still, he found himself silencing his steps and his breathing, wishing he could become invisible as well.

He knew immediately that Rogue was still awake. He could see her warm form curled up on the bed, the colors muted and muddy through the blankets. From her sounds, it was obvious she'd been crying.

She didn't move as the door closed behind him. The latch slid into place with a click that echoed loudly in the heavy silence. Remy stared at her for a long moment. Part of him wanted to go straight to her, to crawl into bed with her and wrap her up in his arms. But he was far too uncertain how she would react to try it.

Instead he changed out of his practice gear and slipped cautiously beneath the covers on his side of the bed, leaving a distinct gap between them. He settled on his back and stared blankly into the darkness overhead, willing himself to sleep.

Rogue made a snuffling sound. "So what happens now?" she asked, her voice thick.

Remy tensed as all of the emotions he'd successfully kept at bay crashed down on him. He wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all.

Instead he tried to answer her question. There were about fifty different ways to interpret what she'd said, but he was guessing she wanted to know what her options were. He hadn't been exaggerating when he told Scott she'd thrown her life away. She was Guild now and regardless of anything that happened with the alliance or the X-Men she would never be able to leave.

"F' now, everyt'ing has t' look normal," he finally said. "De strength of de alliance wit' de X-Men has everyt'ing t' do wit' how it appears from de outside. I know Scott understands dat, an' he does stoic pretty well, anyway." He paused, but Rogue didn't say anything so he forced himself to go on.

"All dat's doubly true when it comes t' you an' me. Here, in private, y' c'n hate me as much as y' want, but out there—" he jerked his chin in the direction of the door even though Rogue wouldn't be able to see him in the dark. "Y' gonna have t' pretend nothin's changed."

He sighed tiredly. "Even if we take Bastion down, it's gon' be years before y' c'n have a divorce. De politics…" he trailed off, not trusting himself to say anything more. The political ramifications of a Guildmaster divorcing his wife would be painful and lasting.

Rogue was silent for several long moments. Then, in a rustle of blankets, she rolled over to face him and raised herself onto one elbow. Her heat signature flared with prickly spikes of anger.

"Sugah," she began, her tone harsh, "ah realize today has been a really bad day an' all, but ah swear, if ya _ever_ say somethin' that stupid ta me again, ya gonna be sleepin' on the floor."

Remy stared at her in surprise. She made a disgusted noise deep in her throat and pulled the covers out of the way so she could slide over next to him.

"Ah don't hate ya. An' ah _certainly_ don't want a divorce." With a little huff that was part irritation, part sob, she wrapped her arm around his chest and tucked her head beneath his chin.

Completely stunned, Remy folded his arms around her, feeling her skin like warm silk beneath his fingertips. He was even more confused when she dissolved into tears.

"Anna, cherie—" He held her close, stroking her hair. "Don' cry. I hate makin' y' cry."

She shook her head, her hair catching in the day's worth of beard covering his chin. "Ya were plannin' ta kill me, Remy." She sniffed mightily. "How am ah supposed ta feel about it?"

Remy stared up at the invisible ceiling. Hearing the words hurt. The memories hurt, too. He'd spent a lot of time analyzing the X-Men for their weaknesses and figuring out how best to exploit what he found. He felt like he'd betrayed each of them, these people he'd come to care far too deeply for, and there was no way to make it right.

"I'm sorry," he breathed into her hair. "I wish I could make it all up t' y'. Somehow."

Rogue didn't answer immediately. Her tears faded away until there was nothing but silence broken only by an occasional sniffle.

"Ah don't think ya owe any of us anythin' more than an explanation," she finally said, her tone thoughtful. "Yeah, it was a bad choice ta deal with Sinister, but ya didn't really have any good choices. Not wantin' ta nuke the world is a pretty overwhelmin' reason f' dancin' with that devil."

The acceptance in her voice lit a warm little flame somewhere deep inside him. "Then y' not mad at me?"

He felt her smile against his chest. "No, ah'm not mad at ya." She sighed softly, sobering. "It hurts—knowin' all this—but ah don't think there's anythin' but time that can fix it." She paused. "It doesn't change the fact that ah love ya, an' that this is where ah belong."

Remy squeezed her tight as the meaning of the words sank in. Relief left him feeling dizzy. He could survive this. No matter what else happened, Rogue hadn't turned her back on him.

He knotted his fingers in the hair at the back of her neck and kissed her. "I love y' too."

A deep, warm silence descended on them. Remy slowly relaxed, marveling at the sudden shift in the laws of the universe. Or his universe, anyway.

"Ya broke into the mansion back then, didn't ya?" Rogue asked suddenly.

Startled and a little nervous, Remy forced his voice to function. "Oui, chere," he admitted. "Had t' get de layout right."

She made a curious noise. "How did ya keep Logan from smellin' ya?"

He shrugged. "Sabotaged de drainage pipes so they'd back up an' dump sewage into the house."

Rogue pushed herself off him in a splutter of outrage. "That was _you_?" Cold air invaded the space where she'd been, raising goosebumps across his chest. "Do ya have any idea how nasty that was ta clean up?" She sat back on her heels, hands on her hips and stared at him.

Remy found himself smirking at her reaction. "It kept Logan out o' de house didn' it?"

Rogue snorted and smacked him lightly on the chest. "Ah can't believe that was you. You are so gonna make that up ta me, mistuh." She pointed an accusing finger at his nose.

Grinning, Remy caught her hand and used it to pull her down beside him once again. "C'mere, chere." She snuggled down against him as he tucked the covers around her shoulders. "I'll make it up to y' any way y' like."

She laughed. "Well, ah do have a list…"


	61. Chapter 61

Chapter 61

Remy couldn't help but feel a little trepidation as he rapped his knuckles on the Drake's door. Rogue squeezed his other hand encouragingly. Bobby and Diedre had invited them over for drinks, which Remy suspected was mostly an excuse to give the two men a chance to talk.

Remy wasn't looking forward to it, despite the little voice inside him that whispered that if Rogue could accept, then surely Bobby would as well.

The door opened on a slice of Bobby's face. Remy immediately noticed the telltale flicker of nervousness in the other's signature and his stomach lurched.

"Hey Remy, Rogue. Come on in." Genuine warmth filled Bobby's tone. He opened the door further and held out one hand, ushering them inside.

Remy had taken exactly two steps when he registered that the room behind Bobby was full of people—all of them X-Men—and froze. Bobby's hand closed on his shoulder.

"It's not an ambush, I promise," Bobby said in a low voice. He squeezed Remy's shoulder tightly, propelling him into the room. On his other side, Rogue, too, urged him forward.

Remy looked uncertainly between them, his instincts warring with his desire to believe they would never intentionally hurt him. He moved a few steps into the room, but that was as far as he could force himself to go. The entire team had assembled. They stood or sat in a loose semi-circle facing him with Scott at the apex.

Scott had been sitting on one arm of the couch, but stood as Remy entered.

"This turned into a much bigger deal than I intended," Scott said apologetically, with a wave that encompassed the full room. "I told a couple of people what I wanted to do and asked if they wanted to be there, and suddenly it was the whole team." He shrugged. "But I guess it kind of makes my point for me."

Remy watched him warily. "What point is dat?"

Scott didn't immediately answer. He dug into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out something small, which he held clamped between his thumb and forefinger as he studied it.

"I didn't realize," he finally said, "until I started asking people, that all of us are still wearing these old pins. Without Cerebro, they're useless." His tone was thoughtful. "But I think we keep them as reminders of this amazing _thing_ we all belong to."

He looked up. "I'm not sure if the Professor understood what he was creating when he invited each of us to join the X-Men, but personally I'm beginning to think the man was a genius. We're all such very different people. Few of us have much more in common than the level of our mutant powers." He looked down at the pin in his hand. "But when you start looking at the characters of the people in this room, their skills and backgrounds and the things they've been through to get to where they are today, you realize that not only is this a group bound by a single goal of making the world a place where mutants can live peacefully, but that together we have the depth and breadth of abilities outside of our mutant powers to just maybe make it happen."

Scott straightened. "One of those abilities is leadership." He crossed the short space separating him from Remy. "And at this point, when we talk about the leadership of the X-Men it means you just as much as it does me. I don't think there's anyone in this room who would hesitate even for a moment to follow an order you gave."

Remy's mouth had gone dry. He could see heads nodding around the room, silently reinforcing Scott's words.

Scott went on, his heat signature as steady as his words. "Regardless of your initial reasons, which I can understand even if I don't like them very much, you volunteered for this gig just like the rest of us and your actions since then speak for themselves." Scott held up the pin in his hand. "Therefore, I am returning this to its proper place." His voice softened. "It's yours, Remy. You earned it."

Remy watched, dumbfounded, as Scott pinned the X-Men's symbol to his lapel.

Scott's voice lit with humor. "And yes, if you ever take it off again, I will yell at you."

The dry comment drew scattered chuckles from the X-Men.

"See, I told you," Bobby murmured from behind Remy.

Remy glanced back at him, but his throat was too tight for him to speak.

Scott stepped back a pace and crossed his arms over his chest. "I know there are several people who want to talk to you about—" He paused, a flicker of discomfort running through his heat signature. "—well, some aspect or another of all this, and that you're simply going to have to deal with. But from an official team standpoint, this is the end of the matter."

Remy managed a nod to show he'd heard, and pulled Rogue a little closer. He was terribly afraid that if he let go of her he might just fall over. His concept of the _end of the matter_ involved rejection, disgust, bitterness and loss. Not Scott cracking jokes and effectively anointing him as one of the team's leaders.

Remy shook his head. "I don' know what t' say." He was sure he looked just as off-balance as he felt.

A short ways behind Scott, Logan snorted in amusement. "That'll be the day."

His comment elicited more laughter from the X-Men and broke the official air surrounding the group. Conversations sprang up, filling the apartment with a familiar, friendly babble.

Bobby clapped Remy on the shoulder. "C'mon, let me get you a drink."

Remy released Rogue with a squeeze and then let Bobby lead him through the maze of people and furnishings toward the far side of the apartment. The young thief splashed scotch into a glass without needing to ask his preference and handed it over.

Remy drained a fair portion of it in a single swallow and Bobby chuckled.

"You still look kind of shell-shocked," he commented.

Remy shrugged. "Yeah." He found himself unable to look directly at Bobby, and so focused his gaze beyond the other man's shoulder. "Dis ain'… what I was expecting."

Bobby's tone hardened. "Which was what? A mock trial and summary judgment?" He snorted derisively. "This is the X-Men. We don't treat people that way—especially not our own."

Remy forced himself to look into the other man's face. "Y' honestly gon' tell me y' don' have a problem wit' what I did?"

The colors making up Bobby's heat signature swirled kaleidoscopically. "Actually, yeah. I am." The challenge in his voice was unmistakable.

"Why not?"

Shaking his head, Bobby turned and poured himself a drink. He took a sip and then regarded Remy solemnly.

"You know I grew up in Maine," he said. "Nice, quiet place."

Uncertain where he was going, Remy nodded. "Y' tol' me at some point."

Bobby's heat signature flickered, the colors darkening. "Someday you'll have to meet my parents. They're decent folks… pretty prejudiced against mutants, though."

"Okay." Remy watched his friend warily. He could see the anger now. It oozed out into Bobby's signature, staining it with lurid hues.

Bobby took another drink. "The truth is that probably the worst thing that's ever happened to me—in regards to how I grew up, anyway—is the fact that my parents refused to come to my wedding. Yeah, it sucks but it's hardly a big deal."

He cocked his head to the side, his invisible gaze piercing. "And then there's you, who I swear has been dealt more crap in his life than anyone could possibly cope with. And still you keep fighting to make something good and meaningful out of all of it because I don't think you know how to give up, no matter how much it hurts to keep going. So no, I don't have a problem with the choices you've made. I'm in no position to judge, and to be honest I hope it's a right I never earn."

Taken aback, Remy could only stare at him. He had expected Bobby to be angry _at_ him, not in his defense. It touched him at a level he wasn't prepared for—a sweet, stinging pain deep in his heart. More than acceptance, more than forgiveness… Bobby _understood_. He understood and held nothing against him. It was enough to make Remy dizzy.

"Um… okay. Wow." Bobby's face swam into view just a few inches from his own. He sounded abashed. "I think you'd better sit down."

The glass was removed from his grip and a strong hand guided him to a nearby chair. Remy sank into it obediently. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, and covered his mouth with one hand. His pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out the overlapping conversations going on behind him and turning everything into a muted roar.

For a while he simply concentrated on breathing. He had thought he'd come to terms with the fact that he would have to pay a bitter price for every hard choice he made. He had resolved himself to doing whatever was necessary—enduring whatever cost he had to in order to accomplish the things he believed were important. But in the course of a few short sentences, Bobby had managed to yank that rug out from under him and he was both surprised and a little embarrassed at how much the unexpected compassion had staggered him.

After a minute, Bobby crouched down next to him and pressed the glass of scotch back into his hand. Remy sipped it and stared at the floor as he tried to put himself back together.

"Is he all right?" he heard Scott ask from somewhere behind him.

Bobby rose, laying a hand on Remy's shoulder as he did so. "Yeah," the other man answered. "Just a little overwhelmed, I think."

"I'll bet." Scott sounded amused. "Well, Storm's still ticked if it helps any."

"_Scott_," Jean scolded, but her tone was mild.

Remy stomach curled into a small knot at the mention of Ororo. She had more right than anyone to be angry at him. He had seen her off toward the edge of the group, but he suspected that was more to show her solidarity with the X-Men than to express forgiveness.

Jean came and knelt next to Remy's chair, her heat signature a rainbow of friendly hues, laced with uncertainty. Remy wasn't sure how to feel about her. All things considered, he really had no right to be angry.

"So, do you forgive me for putting you through this?" she asked. Her tone was as frank as her words.

Remy didn't look at her. "O' course, chere." He cupped his glass in both palms. "Turns out y' were right, anyway."

She reached out to grip his forearm, her touch warm. "And if our positions had been reversed, you'd have done the same thing."

Remy looked up in surprise, but then shrugged ruefully. She was probably right. Taking a deep breath, he pushed himself to his feet and was pleased to find himself more or less steady. Jean released him and stepped back beside her husband.

Remy resolutely straightened his shoulders. "Why didn' y' say anyt'ing two years ago, when y' found out?" he asked her.

Scott's heat signature spiked in response, making him think the other man wondered the same thing. In Remy's experience, Jean was a straightforward, honest woman. She'd never been one to keep dangerous secrets.

Jean seemed to mull her answer for a moment, and when she spoke her tone was reflective. "At first, the only reason I didn't was because I really didn't think you were going to live." She shrugged uncomfortably. "I didn't want to put the X-Men through that if it was all going to turn out to be moot."

She shook her head. "As the days passed and I had a chance to think through it—and work through my emotions—I realized I really had no right to be angry or blame you. So I decided that unless Sinister became an issue, I wouldn't reveal what I knew."

Remy sighed and downed the last of his scotch. "Guess I can' argue wit' dat."

Jean's heat signature softened. "I'm just glad it didn't come out before this." She cocked her head, her stance contemplative. "I'm not sure the X-Men could have handled it."

Beside her, Scott's signature flickered with sour agreement. But anything he might have said was forestalled by Logan, who joined their group with a friendly nod and a wave of the beer bottle he carried in one hand. Logan said nothing, only held out his other hand to Remy.

Remy accepted the handshake and found Logan's grip firm but not crushing and his heat signature unmarred by disgust or fury.

"Cyke an' I were talkin' before you got here," Logan told Remy after a moment, "about how us usin' Sinister's tesseract changes the ground rules fer this op."

Remy pushed his personal thoughts aside and raised an eyebrow. "How's dat?"

"As far as we know, there isn't really a limit to how many people Sinister can move through the tesseract," Scott answered, "which means we should be considering bringing as many of the X-teams as we can."

Remy mentally berated himself. He'd been so wrapped up in his personal crisis that he hadn't given any thought at all to how Sinister's involvement might change their mission parameters.

"How long do ya figure it'd take ta get Excalibur over here?" Logan asked, his attention split between Scott and Remy. "Flyin' could be risky."

"They still have our other Blackbird," Scott reminded him and Logan's heat signature responded with a flash of chagrin.

The Canuck shook his head. "Forgot about that. Well, that solves that problem, then. And getting' X-Force here ain't a big deal if Mal's willin' ta help out."

Both men turned expectantly to Remy, who blinked a couple of times as he tried to catch up.

"I'll give him a call," he finally agreed. He suspected Malcolm Lotho would be more than willing to aid them, but nothing was that simple in the world of the Guilds—particularly between two Guildmasters. There would have to be some kind of negotiation and a price paid for Chicago's help.

"What about X-Factor?" Jean asked.

Scott's signature swirled unhappily. "I don't think we'll get very far there. We don't have any contacts on the West Coast and even if we did it would probably be too dangerous to try and pry them out of L.A. Too much chance we'd be exposed to Bastion." He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Is there any chance we can get some kind of message to Emma Frost? I hate the thought of putting those kids at risk, but they are one of the teams."

To that Remy could only shrug. "We c'n certainly spread de word we're lookin', but beyond dat…"

"Emma'll either answer or she won't." Logan took a swig of his beer. "Probably won't."

Scott pinched the bridge of his nose then let his hand fall. "All we can do is try. Even without them we'll have a sizable force."

Logan made a sound that was half amusement, half derision. "Who'da thought Bastion would solve our manpower problem for us?" His tone turned serious. "It'll still be dicey, though. Without powers, we're still a little thin on bodies to hold the station—"

"And if we have our powers so will the prisoners," Scott finished for him. "I know. Anything could happen."

"Telepaths c'n handle crowd control," Remy injected. With the three teams involved they would have a significant percentage of the the alpha-class telepaths on the planet present. "Maybe have 'em knock everyone out first thing. Then we'd jus' be dealin' wit' de prime sentinels… an' Bastion I suppose."

"You don't think he's human?" Scott asked.

Remy's lips twisted in a lopsided smile. "I don' t'ink we're dat lucky, mon ami."

Scott chuckled. "I guess that logic works."

x-x-x-x

Rogue nibbled the edge of one fingernail as she studied the table in front of her. She really needed an office but she didn't have one, so she'd appropriated a corner of the school's administrative area as her own. Her "desk" was a standard pressboard table like the ones she remembered from grade school, and the back of her rolling chair hung at an awkward angle.

Rogue didn't mind. She didn't care about the accommodations. In truth, she felt more comfortable here than she did amidst the gowns and finery, though she was slowly growing accustomed to those.

At least, she usually felt more comfortable here, she amended.

Right now, however, she found herself staring in consternation at the stack of gold bars that had appeared on her desk overnight. There were fifteen of them, stacked in a precise pyramid that gleamed dully in the fluorescent lighting. The bars had obviously been recast at some point because they bore no mint stamp or other indication of their origin. She had no idea how much the bullion was worth, but she knew it was a lot.

She lowered her hand, unconsciously rubbing the rough edge of her nail with one finger. This was what happened when she mentioned to her husband that the school and several other endeavors were headed into a severe shortage in operating assets.

She shook her head ruefully. The constant push back she got from the council had prompted her to learn as much as she could about how the Guild used its money. New York still possessed significant wealth, but much of what could easily be liquidated already had been, and what remained was either tied up in supporting the underground population and the X-Men's operations, or was being used to maintain mortgages and the like for guildmembers who'd had to abandon their homes.

So she'd gone to Remy to see if there was any way to start siphoning private funds from any thieves willing to contribute them. It was, strictly speaking, against Guild rules. Fortunately, some assets—like the recast gold—had no providence and so were completely untraceable.

She wondered what Remy would say if she asked where he'd gotten it.

"Interesting centerpiece," said a dry female voice from the doorway and Rogue turned in surprise to find Marjorie Tyre watching her expressionlessly.

Her gut did a nervous little flip as she rose to her feet and tried to paste on a pleasant smile. "Mrs. Tyre."

Marjorie acknowledged her with a nod. "Mistress." Her gaze roamed the small confines of the room, taking in the industrious clutter of textbooks and invoices and the many children's drawings and other bits of homemade art pinned haphazardly on the walls.

Marjorie returned her gaze to Rogue. "You enjoy working with children."

Rogue had no idea what to make of the statement. She couldn't read anything from the other woman's expression at all. "Yes ma'am," she agreed. "Ah love kids. Always have."

"It shows." Marjorie came forward into the room and Rogue had to squelch the instinct to back away from her. "I assume you plan to have some of your own?"

Rogue had to force herself to keep breathing normally. The Guild didn't know about her powers, her curse.

"Ah hope to," she finally answered. In her head she knew it was possible—by artificial insemination if nothing else—and she tried to hold onto the image of a tiny baby tucked into her arms someday—hers and Remy's—whenever the despair threatened to swamp her.

Marjorie gave her a swift, bitter smile. "Well, be careful. They can break your heart like nothing else."

Rogue felt an unexpected stab of compassion for the woman in front of her but had no idea how to express it. She doubted Marjorie Tyre would accept any kind of gesture from her.

She moistened her lips. "Is there somethin' ah can do for you, ma'am?" she asked after a moment.

Marjorie cleared her throat. "I thought we should talk."

Rogue managed to contain her response to a mild lift of her eyebrows. "All right." She sat down in her chair and gestured for the other woman to help herself to the only other seat in the room, which was a bright yellow formed plastic chair with a large crack in the back.

Marjorie took the proffered seat with a prim, aristocratic grace. She crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap, then regarded Rogue calmly across the space separating them.

"Where did the gold come from?" she asked.

Rogue kept her expression still. "Ah don't honestly know." She might have her suspicions but she wasn't about to express them to a woman whose voice commanded respect at the top levels of Remy's opposition.

The corners of Marjorie's eyes crinkled, her only reaction. "That's wise of you."

Uncertain how to respond, Rogue held her tongue. She'd quickly learned that indiscriminately running her mouth was not something she could afford to do.

Marjorie shifted slightly in her seat. "I find myself in a difficult position."

Pressing her lips together, Rogue waited for her to go on.

Marjorie blew out her breath in a brusque sigh. "I blame my husband." She looked around the room, her eyes narrowing. "Ultimately, this is his fault. All of it."

"How so?" Rogue tried to keep her tone politely interested.

The other woman seemed to check herself, as if she'd displayed more emotion than she intended. She flexed one hand, toying with the heavy rings she wore.

"The men of my family have been thieves going back eight generations," Marjorie said. "Including two Masters. Ours is a well-respected bloodline." She shook her head. "My husband, unfortunately, never lived up to his potential. When Michael was still little, he fumbled a job and ended up sentenced to twenty years in a Lebanese prison."

Rogue squeezed her hands together in her lap, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. "Ah'm sorry." She paused, then went ahead and voiced the question that hovered on the tip of her tongue. "What happened ta him?"

Marjorie's tone hardened. "He died in prison twelve years into his sentence."

Rogue couldn't help her surprise. "The Guild didn't go get him?" She didn't think the Guild would leave one of its members in that situation, especially in a non-first world country without strong political ties to the U.S.

"The council refused. Because of the political situation at the time, the risk of exposing the Guild was too high."

In a flash of insight, Rogue began to understand where Michael's power hunger might have come from. A Guild that couldn't save his father would never have seemed strong enough in his eyes. She wondered if Remy knew the Tyre family's history, or if knowing would only make living with Adrian's and Michael's deaths that much harder.

Rogue moistened her lips. "Ah'm not quite sure why ya tellin' me this."

Marjorie lifted her chin a fraction. "Because, Mistress, I agreed with the council's decision then and I agree with your husband's choices now."

Rogue stared at her in shock, and Marjorie's mouth quirked in a not-quite-friendly smile. "You see why I find my position a difficult one."

"Yes, ma'am," she agreed faintly.

Marjorie went on. "Keeping the Guild safe must always be our first priority. Right now, that means we must have one voice and one course of action." She straightened in her seat and uncrossed her legs as if she were preparing to stand. "Tell the Guildmaster that I will not support any activity by those closest to my son or nephew that would undermine the Guild's solidarity."

She rose gracefully to her feet and Rogue hurried to copy her.

"Ah'll let him know," she assured the other woman, careful not to let her emotions show. Marjorie's support would cripple Remy's opposition, a fact she was certain the other woman knew quite well.

Marjorie nodded, but her gaze remained sharp. "I don't expect to always agree with his choices," she told Rogue, who tensed in expectation, "and when those situations arise I expect to be heard."

Rogue nodded. In exchange for her support, Marjorie wanted access. Unrestricted access to the Guildmaster, with all of the political clout that bestowed, would make her a force to be reckoned with. _And_ it meant Remy would have to listen to her.

Rogue slowly extended her hand. "Ah've never known mah husband ta turn down good advice," she said. Remy wouldn't be thrilled, but she knew he would agree. It was a relatively small price to pay and it would silence any critics who claimed he didn't listen to opposing opinions.

Marjorie shook her hand briskly. "Well, then, I'll let you get back to your business. I appreciate you seeing me, Guildmistress."

"Ya always welcome ta stop by, ma'am."

Marjorie nodded toward the pile of gold bars. "If you'd like, I can give you the name of someone who deals in larger quantities of bullion," she said. "He'd be able to put those on the market without raising suspicion."

Rogue blinked a couple of times, surprised. "Ah'd appreciate that."

With a thin smile, the other woman pulled a pen and a scrap of paper from her purse. She scribbled a name and handed the paper to Rogue.

Then, without waiting for a response she turned and walked out.

x-x-x-x

Rogue sat cross-legged on the bed, watching Remy as he changed out of his suit. They had a couple of hours before they were due at the Club and she was looking forward to sharing a real, sit-down dinner with her husband.

Remy was still in the process of unbuttoning his shirt when a knock sounded at the door. He disappeared into the closet while Rogue went to open it. Diedre stood on the far side, a tray piled high with covered dishes in her hands. A wine bottle perched precariously on the edge of the tray. The delectable smell of hot beef and other good things wafted up, making Rogue's mouth water.

Rogue took the tray with a grateful smile. "Thanks, sugah. Ah can't tell ya how much ah appreciate this."

Diedre grinned in return. "You're welcome." She pulled silverware, napkins and a wine cork out of the pocket of her sweater, depositing them precariously on top of the dishes. "Have a nice dinner."

"We will." Shouldering the door open behind her, Rogue retreated into the apartment.

Remy emerged bare-chested from the closet as Rogue approached. He had a shirt slung over one arm while he buttoned his jeans.

"I'll take dat, chere." He held out his hands and Rogue transferred her burden to him. She couldn't help but notice how thin he had gotten. Beneath the silken play of muscle his ribs were clearly visible. His arms, too, bore testament to the slow erosion—the bones of his wrists, elbows, and knuckles all stood out in sharp relief.

Remy turned to lead her toward the sitting room. The scars on his back were beginning to fade, she noted. Eventually they'd be as pale as the rest of his collection, an indistinguishable part of the landscape of him.

He set the tray down on the table then pulled on his shirt while Rogue went about setting out the dishes and pouring wine. The long-sleeved, collarless shirt clung to his frame without being tight, disguising the signs of how great a toll the last few years had taken on him.

"So what's de occasion?" Remy asked as he settled in his chair. His fingers drifted across the place setting in front of him, identifying utensils and the placement and shape of his wine glass.

Rogue clucked her tongue playfully, determined to keep the mood light. "Don't tell me ya don't know what today is?"

She watched expressions chase across his face as he tried to figure it out. She'd managed to talk herself out of being hurt that the date had completely escaped him. Given everything that had been going on, he could be forgiven for being distracted.

Eventually Remy shook his head. "Sorry, chere." He watched her curiously.

Rogue glanced involuntarily at her left hand and the emerald studded band she wore. "It's our six month anniversary, sugah."

His eyebrows hiked upward. "Is it really?" He immediately turned apologetic. "I'm sorry, chere. I've been so busy—"

"It's okay. Ah'm not mad."

He cocked a skeptical eyebrow. "Y' sure?"

She nodded and picked up her fork. "Ah am." She pointed to his plate. "Eat, sugah. The food's goin' ta get cold."

With a lingering look, he did as she asked and for a little while they ate in silence.

"How is de school doin'?" Remy asked after a bit, his tone conversational.

Rogue had to smile. "Seein' as I got a check today foh a little over four million dollars, ah'd say it's doin' pretty well." The broker whose name Marjorie had given her had completed the transaction within a couple of days and taken what she considered to be a very reasonable cut. She still felt odd about having personally marketed what had to be stolen goods, but she suspected she would get used to it.

Remy glanced up at her, amusement dancing in the depth of his red eyes. "Dat gon' be enough, chere?" He didn't pretend ignorance, for which she was grateful. Outside of the apartment he would disavow any knowledge, but that didn't bother her so long as he played straight with her when they were alone.

"More than enough," she assured him. "Why, ya got more squirreled away in the walls or somethin'?"

He chuckled. "Non, chere."

Rogue sipped her wine, debating how much to ask. She still felt hesitant when asking for details, sometimes. There was something awkward about the process, as if they were both braced for an argument that no longer happened.

"Where did it come from, anyway?" she finally asked.

Remy shrugged. "I keep a safety deposit box wit' Credit Suisse in Zurich." He laid his fork down and pushed his chair back from the table. "Speaking o' which, there was somet'ing else in dat box I was savin', so I had it couriered over wit' de gold."

Laying his napkin down beside his plate, he turned and walked over to the desk. Rogue watched curiously as he dug a flat black case out of the bottom drawer and returned. Her stomach did a little dance when she realized it was a jewelry case in his hands.

He held the black velvet case out to her. "For you, cherie."

She took it with a smile, but made no effort to open it immediately. Instead she watched as he returned to his chair.

He nodded to the case. "I actually had dat made f' y' birthday a couple o' years ago." He met her gaze briefly. "At de time I was expectin' t' explain all dis—" He waved one hand as if to indicate their surroundings, "in pretty short order. Figured it would be a way t' start de conversation." He shrugged, his expression reflecting regret. "Didn' work out dat way, so I stored it."

Setting the case on the table beside her plate, Rogue carefully levered it open. Based on the size and shape she expected to find a necklace inside and wasn't disappointed, but the piece stopped her in her tracks and made her breath catch.

A dozen strands strung with gems of all kinds twisted together in a wild and beautiful profusion of color. Rogue identified emeralds and topaz, onyx and rubies, and a scattering of a clear, golden gem she thought was probably some unusual variety of diamond. The beads were of varying sizes and shapes, as if they'd been polished in whatever raw form they'd been taken from the ground.

Rogue fell in love with it on sight. Unlike the formal, regimented pieces Chess had kindly lent her, _this_ was the kind of jewelry she would choose for herself.

"I always t'ought it was a lot like you," Remy said softly while she stared. "A whole bunch o' different t'ings all tangled up together, an' all o' them amazin'."

Rogue opened her mouth to respond but found that no sound emerged. Instead she stood and went around the table. Insinuating herself into his lap, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him.

"It's beautiful, Remy. Thank you."

"Happy anniversary, I guess."

She laughed, a strange sense of wonder overtaking her. "Ya know, it really is." She pulled back far enough to look at him. "Did ya ever imagine we'd end up like this?"

He shook his head solemnly. "Didn' dare."

The admission made her heart pinch. She reached up to stroke the line of his jaw with one hand, feeling the soft prickle of stubble beneath her finger tips. She understood being afraid to even imagine those impossible-seeming dreams.

"Ah want ta have a baby," she finally said, her voice barely rising above a whisper. "After Bastion's gone." The team needed her until then.

He looked into her face, his gaze searching. "After?"

She nodded unevenly. "Ya promised me we'd find a way. Ah'm gonna hold ya to that."

A slow smile lit his face, chasing the shadows from his eyes. "Deal, chere."


	62. Chapter 62

Chapter 62

The inside of the limousine was filled with tense silence.

Scott and Jean sat with their fingers twined tightly together, identical expressions of quiet terror on their faces. When the X-Men had contacted Sinister to make the final arrangements to meet, the geneticist had added a requirement, refusing to attend unless both of the Summers came. Rogue could only imagine the dreadful thoughts that had to be swimming through their minds.

Rogue glanced at her husband. He sat beside her, one hand resting on her thigh just below the hem of her short skirt. He continued to stare out the window, his thoughts sealed up behind a flat mask. Every so often he would glance across the limousine to where Ororo sat on Jean's far side, but he said nothing. As far as Rogue could tell, Ororo had not so much as acknowledged his presence, but she caught the other woman watching him when his gaze was elsewhere, her blue eyes full of reproach.

Seated on Rogue's far side, Logan was the only member of the group who looked even remotely relaxed. They were meeting Sinister in a neutral, high end nightclub—one not affiliated with either the Guild or the mob—but one which had recently opened its doors to mutants. Logan had cleaned up in order to fit in with the crowd where they were going and now, clean shaven and dressed in casual slacks and a blue shirt that matched the color of his eyes, he looked more than ready for a night on the town.

The sounds of the late evening traffic came to Rogue, muted through the thick, bullet-resistant glass of the windows. The limousine was a virtual tank—the same kind used by foreign dignitaries and executives when they had to move about the city—and as safe as the thieves could manage. There was no direct underground route to where they were going, so they'd been forced travel above ground despite the risk of a sentinels' overflight. Every so often Rogue heard the tinny crackly of the earpiece worn by Bishop, who sat in the front passenger seat, as the teams shadowing them reported on the sentinels' locations.

The Guild rumor mill had eventually gotten hold of most of the story behind the strange relationship between their Guildmaster and the time-lost mutant and had, in almost unanimous accord, accepted Bishop as a Clansman.

Unfortunately, their driver wasn't Guild at all. The Guild didn't own any armored cars so they'd been forced to lease one, much as the government and other agencies often did. The man who sat in the front seat had said no more than necessary when he arrived to pick them up, and though he'd been unfailingly polite, he carried himself with a self-assurance that marked him as being more than just a driver. Logan had sized the man up and given his approval with a terse nod.

Scott cleared his throat, breaking the deafening silence in the car. He looked over at Remy.

"I think I've figured out why Sinister did it."

The rest of them gave him curious stares, and he waved one hand in a vague, conciliatory gesture. "Why he went to all the trouble with you and the Marauders, I mean." He shrugged. "He obviously wanted to accomplish more than just killing off the Morlocks."

Rogue felt Remy tense. "You wan' talk about dis now?" he asked sharply, his gaze flickering toward Ororo.

Scott shrugged again. "I need the distraction," he admitted with the faintest touch of sheepishness.

Remy's only response was a snort. He looked back out the window but his fingers maintained their taut grip on Rogue's thigh. She could feel the hard edge of the body armor he wore beneath his clothes pressing against her side. The council had been adamant that he wear it as a precaution, and she was inclined to agree.

"So what's yer theory?" Logan asked after a moment. He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest.

Scott adjusted his grip on Jean's hand. "I think killing the Morlocks was the secondary objective."

That brought Rogue's head up. The Morlock Massacre had been her first large scale, close-up experience with human carnage. The sounds and images from that night were burned into her brain. They echoed in her nightmares.

Scott went on. "Like Bobby pointed out, there are much easier and more reliable ways of killing those people."

Logan nodded. "He wanted a team capable o' takin' on the X-Men."

"Yes," Scott agreed, "but even that was just gravy. We don't give Sinister enough credit. He's _very_ smart, and even more cunning." He leaned forward. "What I keep coming back to is the fact that he willingly took an omega mutant out of play."

Rogue glanced over at her husband, but he was pretending to ignore them. Uneven bars of light rippled across his face, reflections from the passing streetlights.

"You are correct, Scott." Ororo spoke reluctantly, her gaze shadowed. "Sinister values mutants—and mutations—too highly. He should not have been willing to help—" She broke off abruptly as if unwilling to say Remy's name.

Rogue bit her lip against the harsh words that wanted to leap off her tongue. She understood how hurt Ororo must be, but that didn't give her the right to use her pain as a weapon. Remy didn't deserve that.

Across the car, Jean met her gaze with quiet sympathy in her eyes. Then she broke away to look over at Scott. "So what did he hope to gain?"

Scott flashed a thin, sardonic grin. "It would be interesting to know whether Sinister knew about Remy before Remy contacted him. I don't think he did."

Remy turned at that and Scott met his gaze, eyebrows raised. "I think meeting you scared the socks off him."

Remy shook his head in disbelief. "Sinister ain' scared o' not'ing."

"He's afraid of me." Scott leaned back in his seat, his stance deceptively casual.

Logan made an amused noise. "That's because ya can put large, bloody holes in him with those optic blasts o' yers."

Scott tipped his head to the side, his gaze still fixed on Remy. "Right. So imagine what he thought of a mutant who could literally take him apart on the subatomic level."

Remy's gaze narrowed. Rogue found herself staring at Scott, her stomach squirming. She hadn't really thought much about what Remy had been capable of with his powers at their highest level. There had been too many other things crowding to the front of her awareness.

"Ah guess that explains why he'd be willin' ta do the surgery," she finally said. "But why bother with all the rest of it?" She laid her hand over Remy's, needing the reassurance of his touch.

Scott sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Well, I'm just speculating at this point, but I think he saw a way to kill several birds with one stone. The surgery solved his immediate problem, but didn't give him any kind of guarantee about the future." He glanced at Jean. "Given how many of us have died and been reborn, been cloned, swapped bodies, et cetera, it's not hard to imagine that something, someday, might restore Remy's powers."

Beside Rogue, Remy went rigid and then just as quickly relaxed. She doubted anyone not touching him would have noticed the reaction. His face showed nothing. She bit back a sigh. She hated that blank expression.

Logan shifted in his seat. "An' killin' the Morlocks somehow gave him that guarantee?"

"Guarantee? No." Scott shook his head. "But he needed to hedge his bets somehow. Think about it. What would scare Sinister more than either Remy or I individually?"

Across the car, Jean's eyebrows hiked in a small "ah" of understanding at the same time as the pieces clicked together in Rogue's mind.

"You and Remy working together," Jean answered, looking between the two men, and Scott nodded. Rogue's stomach twisted.

She glanced over at her husband. "If Sinister was tryin' ta keep Remy away from the X-Men, he failed miserably."

Scott speared her with a solemn gaze. "I don't think that was his intent." He turned to Remy. "I think he figured contact was inevitable—Charles was always searching for new mutants so it's not unreasonable to think we probably would have crossed paths eventually. Instead, he used the Morlocks as a wedge that he hoped would keep any kind of trust from ever developing. That might, in fact, turn us into enemies."

Remy stared at him, pain flickering in the depths of his eyes, and Scott's tone softened. "It almost worked."

Logan pursed his lips in a silent whistle and sank back in his seat. "That makes a lot o' sense, Cyke."

The car pulled over and rolled to a stop. Outside, people milled up and down a well lit sidewalk. Directly opposite them, a dark awning covered a set of stairs leading downward. White letters proclaimed the name of the club to be _Avante_.

In the front seat, Bishop put his hand to his ear, listening. He turned to look back at Remy.

"We're clear, sir." The honorific fell from Bishop's tongue without the faintest hint of resentment or even any sense that the other man had noticed. Rogue had the strangest feeling that Bishop's acceptance by the Guild had given him back some small piece of the home he'd lost.

Remy nodded in acknowledgment and Bishop opened his door and stepped out. The long, black duster he wore flared in the evening breeze, revealing a glimpse of the laser rifle hidden beneath it. He came around to open the rear door for them.

Scott straightened in his seat as they prepared to disembark. "Anyway, we need to make sure Sinister thinks his wedge is still in place when we talk to him," he said with a quick look into each of their faces. The X-Men nodded.

Rogue let Remy help her out of the car and squeezed his hand tightly. The wind tugged at her hair, whipping a few errant pieces around her face, and she nervously smoothed them into place.

Remy straightened his shoulders and flashed her an empty smile. "Here we go, eh?"

They followed Scott and Jean into the underground nightclub, with Bishop bringing up the rear. They left Bishop outside an imaging station much like the one leading into the Club, where he took up a position that would let him watch everyone who came through.

Continuing on, they found themselves facing an enormous, raucous sea of people. Unfamiliar techno music pounded through the darkened room, so loud Rogue could feel the vibration in her chest. Strobes flashed overhead, searing still-frame images into her mind. Tables ringed the dance floor and on the far side of the room she caught sight of a maze of alcoves separated by gauzy curtains. Hidden lighting threw the occupants shadows large against the draping fabric, filling the area with flickering, erotic images.

Scott plowed straight into the crowd and the rest of them had no choice but to follow. Rogue braced herself against the claustrophobic press of writhing bodies. She clung to Remy's hand, hating the limbs that brushed against her—the sense of being touched without her consent.

She breathed a sigh of relief once they reached the far side of the dance floor, but then her breath froze in her chest. One of the nearer alcoves had its curtains drawn back along two sides, exposing a pair of well-upholstered chaise lounges that faced each other across a low table. The table was set with a wine service.

Sinister sat in one of the lounges. He looked almost dapper, dressed normally and with his black hair pulled back in a neat queue. The red diamond in his forehead glinted in the light. But that wasn't what stopped Rogue in her tracks.

Sinister was getting a lap dance. From a woman in an obscenely skimpy red mini dress, with long, dark hair tumbling down her back and her arms stacked in bangles almost to the elbows. Sinister watched her gyrate with lascivious interest, running his fingers over her stomach, across her back, and around the circle of each shoulder socket. Rogue felt an almost overwhelming urge to rub her eyes.

Scott and Jean exchanged startled looks.

"I guess he's still a man, after all," Scott said after a moment.

Logan growled low in his throat, the sound raising goosebumps on Rogue's arms. "Yer not lookin' close enough, Slim." He nodded toward Sinister. "Look how he's touchin' her. That ain't a man touchin' a woman. Those are dissection cuts he's markin' out."

Rogue's breath caught. Little chills chased down her back.

"I think I am going to be sick," Ororo said from behind her, and Rogue could only nod.

"Ah hear ya, sugah."

Scott glanced back at them. "Keep it together, folks. Right now we need him."

Rogue glanced up at her husband, who gave her a single, haunted look before his expression disappeared completely. Her heart twinged. It was no wonder he couldn't stand being around doctors. She couldn't imagine how hard it must have been for him—how desperate he must have been—to have voluntarily laid on Sinister's operating table.

Scott moved forward, taking Jean with him, and the rest of them were obliged to follow. Rogue was suitably impressed with her team leader when he calmly walked over to the lounge opposite Sinister and sat down. Jean copied him, crossing her legs and folding her hands in her lap. Ororo went around to seat herself on the single arm of the chaise lounge beside Scott, and Logan took up a position behind her with one hand resting on her shoulder. That left Rogue and Remy to find a place near the other end of the chaise, a bit removed from the other four, which they did. They weren't there tonight as part of the X-Men's leadership—at least, Sinister wasn't supposed to think so. But Scott hadn't wanted to go into a meeting this important without having Remy at his back.

"Hello, Nathan," Scott said.

Sinister raised an eyebrow at the greeting. "Good evening, Scott. It's been a long time." He pushed the woman off his lap with a curt "Get lost," then returned his attention to the Summers. The woman flounced away, straightening her dress as she went.

Sinister shifted his attention to Jean. He studied her intently, his lips curving into a small smile when he apparently found what he was looking for.

"You're looking quite radiant, Mrs. Summers," he told her.

Jean raised a hand to her hair, the gesture nervous, then dropped her hand back into her lap. Her eyes narrowed.

Logan's lip curled in a silent snarl. "Cut the crap, Sinister. We're not here ta trade social niceties."

Sinister's expression thinned. "That doesn't mean one can't still be polite." He turned to Remy. "For instance, I haven't yet had the chance to congratulate Mr. LeBeau, here, on his recent… promotion within the Thieves Guild."

Scott turned a quizzical look on Remy, which Rogue echoed. Remy had been Guildmaster for more than a year, now, which didn't really qualify as recent, so she wasn't sure what Sinister might be referring to.

Remy met Scott's gaze with a frown and a shrug. "I didn' get a chance t' tell y' before we left." He glanced down at Rogue for a moment, his irises molten in the dim light, then returned his attention to Scott. "Breakin' into dat sentinels final assembly plant really impressed some people. I've been bumped up t' second rank."

Rogue couldn't help but smile at the surprise announcement. _Second_ ranked Master Thief in the world sounded oh so very impressive. Remy deserved the recognition. She squeezed his hand.

Sinister reclined in his chair and threw one arm across the back, his smile widening. "My my. Someone has been unusually forthright."

Remy threw him a dirty look tainted with just the right amount of disguised fear. Rogue did her best to appear oblivious. She couldn't wait to rub Sinister's nose in the failure of his cold-blooded machinations, but not until he'd helped them. Until then, they had to play along.

Scott sighed, sounding annoyed. "Gambit's Guild affiliation isn't exactly a secret. We owe the thieves a great deal for their help these past months."

Sinister raised his eyebrows. "Accepting help from criminals isn't like you, Scott."

Scott shrugged and looked away. "Beggars can't be choosers."

Sinister seemed to find that tremendously entertaining. He grinned at Scott and tapped his fingers on the back of the chaise.

Logan crossed his arms over his chest. "Can we get on with it already?"

"Of course, of course." Sinister straightened and schooled his expression to one of polite interest. "Tell me, how can I help the X-Men?"

Scott cleared his throat. "We'd like to use your tesseract to get up to Bastion's space station."

Sinister didn't seem particularly surprised by the request, though Rogue hadn't really expected him to be. He cocked his head.

"And what are you offering in return for my aid?"

Logan snorted. "The satisfaction o' savin' mutants from OZT ain't enough for ya?"

Sinister looked up at him. "Philanthropy has always been Professor Xavier's pursuit, not mine."

"You'd benefit as much as we would," Scott told him. "We all have reason to want mutants to get their powers back."

"Yes, but I have something you want rather badly, so I would be foolish to simply give it away." A hint of Sinister's smile returned. "Everything has its price, as you well know, Scott." He turned to Remy. "Or you might ask Gambit. He knows how expensive my help can be. Don't you, Remy?"

Scott followed his gaze, his brow wrinkling in consternation. "What is he talking about?" he asked Remy. Rogue wondered how horrified Scott would be if she told him what a good liar he had become.

"Nothin'," Remy answered, the single word clipped and harsh.

It wasn't hard for Rogue to summon the frightened dread Sinister would expect of her. It still hurt, what Remy did. Deep in her heart where she was most vulnerable. She moistened her lips and didn't say anything.

Ororo straightened in her seat. "We have little to offer you other than freedom from the threat of OZT," she told Sinister, her tone composed.

Sinister smiled at her, showing pointed teeth. "Oh, you'd be surprised how much the X-Men might have to offer that I would be interested in, Ms. Munroe." His gaze drifted back to Remy. "Perhaps an exchange of professional favors might be in order."

Rogue felt Remy tense as her own stomach plummeted toward her feet. Remy's expression went sick with dread, which seemed to please Sinister.

The geneticist returned his attention to Storm. "Or personal, perhaps," he suggested casually, looking her over.

Storm stiffened, her expression darkening with outrage. "I would die before I let you touch me," she said coldly. From behind her, Logan growled, the sound openly threatening.

Sinister simply shrugged, unperturbed. "I believe you would." He returned his gaze to Scott and Jean and his expression turned businesslike. Rogue's gut clenched in expectation.

"I can tell by looking at you that you've recently given birth," he told Jean.

Her face went white and she shot to her feet. "No! Don't you dare, Sinister." She glared at him, fury snapping in her eyes. "You're not going to lay a hand on my daughter, do you understand?"

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it," Sinister assured her. "The baby is healthy?" He looked between Scott and Jean. Neither of them answered him, but he seemed to take their silence as an assent.

"What do you want?" Scott finally growled.

Sinister shifted in his seat. "You know how interested I am in the combination of your DNA with Jean's," he said with a nod in Scott's direction. "Cable's blood has proven to be an utterly fascinating study subject, but, being only a single sample, I can hardly draw any concrete conclusions."

"You want a sample of Haven's blood." Rogue could see Scott's throat working as he forced the words out.

Sinister nodded. "Along with bone marrow and a healthy sample of her umbilical stem cells, which I'm certain Dr. McCoy has preserved."

"_No!_" Jean's hands clenched into tight fists. "_Never!_" She turned imploringly to her husband. "We are not giving any piece of our daughter to this monster, Scott."

"Those are my terms," Sinister told her, his tone cool. "Take them or leave them."

Scott had gone pale, but he met Sinister's gaze unflinchingly. "On one condition," he said, and Jean collapsed into her seat next to him, her eyes wide with horror.

"Scott, no—"

"We aren't in much of a position to argue," he told her firmly, and Rogue saw the impact of the words in her eyes. Remy had said the same thing just a few days before.

"What condition?" Sinister asked.

Scott reached over to take Jean's hand. "This is a lifetime agreement. For the rest of Haven's life, this is all you get of her."

Sinister gave him an appraising stare as the silence stretched between them, thick and frightening. Rogue felt like she couldn't breathe.

Finally, Sinister nodded. "Agreed."

Jean yanked her hand out of Scott's grip and wrapped her arms around her waist, doubling over. She stared at her husband with angry, wounded eyes.

Rogue could see the muscle flexing in Scott's jaw as he gritted his teeth. "Then we're done here." He rose to his feet and the rest of the seated X-Men copied him. "Once we've assembled the teams we'll contact you with when and where to meet. You'll get your samples as soon as we're onboard the space station."

Sinister nodded. "Very well. I'll be waiting."

Scott stepped away from the chaise. Feeling cold, Rogue waited for the others to pass them, then she and Remy fell in behind. Ahead of her, Jean walked stiffly, her arms rigid at her sides. Scott wisely didn't try to touch her.

As soon as they'd passed through the imaging station into the club's reception area, Jean turned on her husband with a snarl.

"How could you do that to our baby?"

Scott faced her, arms crossed over his chest and his expression stormy. "What do you want me to say, Jean? The whole world is depending on us to find a way to stop Bastion. Besides, Sinister would have gotten Haven's DNA. You know he'd find a way eventually."

"That's not the same as _giving_ it to him!"

Scott's expression thinned. "No, it hurts more, which is exactly what Sinister wanted."

At that, Remy snorted sourly. "Ain' so easy when it's your life gettin' torn apart at de seams, is it?" he asked Jean, faint mockery in his tone.

She turned to stare at him. Tears leaked from her eyes, cutting watery trails through her makeup. Finally, she shook her head and with a sniff, looked back at her husband.

"I'm sorry, I just—" With a helpless gesture, she swiped her eyes with one hand.

Scott just nodded. "I know, honey."

Bishop stepped forward, breaking the awkward silence that followed. "We need to go. We've got about eight minutes before the next sentinels overflight."

Scott acknowledged him with a curt nod and gestured for him to lead the way.

They went outside. Sporadic raindrops spattered on the sidewalk and blew into Rogue's face. She shivered, sidling closer to her husband who wrapped one arm around her waist.

Their car waited on the curb directly ahead of them. As soon as they appeared, their driver stepped out, raising an umbrella against the rain. He came around the nose of the car toward them, umbrella held high.

The gunshot came from a distance, its harsh rifle crack echoing between the tall building faces surrounding them. Before Rogue could even react, Remy staggered against her and a searing pain exploded in her cheek. He fell, knocking her down with him. Rogue hit the ground on her hands and knees, staring in horror at her husband sprawled on his back a short ways away. She couldn't see any blood against his dark shirt, but his eyes were closed and he didn't move.

She raised one hand instinctively to her face as she crawled toward Remy, feeling the sticky warmth of blood on her fingers. As if in the distance she could hear screams and shouting but she couldn't understand the words through the pounding of her own pulse.

She reached Remy just as hands closed on her shoulders, pulling her away. She fought them until Logan's voice penetrated the dull roaring in her ears.

"Rogue, get in the car!" He dragged her toward the open door of the limousine. Jean was already inside, gesturing urgently for them to hurry. Bishop crouched next to the door, his rifle trained on the rooftops as he searched for the source of the shot.

Rogue turned to look over her shoulder as Logan shoved her into the back of the car. Scott and Ororo had Remy by the shoulders and were dragging him toward the limousine. He hung limply between them, either unconscious or dead.

_Not dead_, she told herself fiercely. _That's why he was wearin' armor._ With the gusting wind, the Assassin would have been forced to aim for center mass rather than risk a head shot. Stark hatred burned in her heart for Marius, and Bastion, and whichever Assassin was out there with a rifle in his hands.

"Go!" Scott shouted to the driver as they manhandled Remy into the car and piled in behind him. Bishop dropped into the front passenger seat as the car peeled away. Rogue could hear him giving the driver instructions but didn't try to listen in. Bishop would find them a safe route back to Thief territory.

Rogue pushed herself out of her seat and dropped to her knees beside her husband. Her fingers immediately went to his neck, searching for a pulse. She found it, reassuringly strong and regular. Remy lay sprawled across Ororo's lap. The other woman held him in a tight grip, her eyes full of fear.

Rogue looked up into Ororo's face. "His pulse is good," she told the other woman and saw the fear ease. Her own face throbbed painfully in time to the racing of her heart.

Turning back to her husband, Rogue yanked his shirt open, revealing the sculpted black paneling characteristic of Reed Richard's body armor. One of the panels had a hole the size of her fist torn in it, the edges lined with shredded fabric. It smelled faintly of chalk and burnt oil. She felt the impact site and nearly went limp with relief when her questing fingers struck hard material at the bottom of the hole.

"Did the bullet go through?" Scott demanded.

Rogue shook her head. "No, the vest stopped it."

From the size of the hole, she guessed the bullet had shattered on impact. It had to have been a solid round, though, to do that much damage. She suspected the Assassin had used armor piercing bullets in expectation of Remy wearing some kind of protection. He just hadn't known how good Reed Richards' stuff was.

A moment later, Remy's eyes opened. He reared up, eyes darting around the car in search of the threat, and immediately doubled over in a brutal coughing fit, both hands clamped to his side near where the bullet had struck. Ororo shifted her grip, bracing him with a firm grip on both shoulders.

Remy straightened eventually and looked around the car as if verifying for himself that everyone was there. He paused when he got to Scott.

The X-Men's field leader gave him an aggrieved look. "I am never taking you out in public again," he said, but he sounded more relieved than angry.

Remy flashed his troublemaker's grin as, beyond him, Ororo gave Scott a slightly scandalized stare. Remy didn't seem to have realized that Ororo still had one arm wrapped around him, or if he did he was doing his best not to make an issue of it.

Rogue sighed and rested her hands on her husband's knee, feeling suddenly weak as the adrenaline rush drained away.

"Ah guess Marius decided he'd waited long enough," she concluded. Talking made her jaw ache fiercely, and she pressed her fingers against her cheek, trying to push it back.

"Prob'ly," Remy agreed, wincing at the effort to say even the single word.

Scott watched him in concern. "You okay?"

Remy nodded. "Gon' need an x-ray," he answered. He pressed his hand against his ribs and leaned a little more into Ororo. Rogue saw Scott and Logan exchange looks and knew what they were thinking. If the bullet had broken a rib, it would set their timetable back once again.

Scott accepted that and turned his attention to Rogue. He gestured for her to move closer. "Let me see your face, Rogue."

Remy straightened in alarm and Rogue realized he had been unaware she'd gotten hit. He couldn't see the blood. She held up a hand to forestall him.

"Ah'm okay, sugah," she assured him, but she let Scott take her face in his hands for a critical examination anyway. "Ah caught a piece o' shrapnel from the bullet. That's all."

Remy acknowledged that with a nod, but she could see the realization in his eyes of how much worse it could have been.

"You'll need a couple of stitches," Scott concluded as he released her and Rogue nodded. She felt strangely calm. She could have lost Remy _again_. Standing beside him, she could have easily died herself if that little piece of shrapnel had hit her someplace more critical. But somehow it just didn't seem worth getting angry about. She could have lost everything but she hadn't, and right now she was simply grateful that she got to keep it all for another day.

Remy seemed to sense her feelings. He reached out to take her hand, squeezing tightly, and Rogue returned a flickering smile.

Scott sighed and leaned back in his seat. "We've got to take Bastion down," he said, looking around at each of their faces. His voice was grim. "It doesn't matter how much it costs."

Across the car, Jean looked away but after a moment she nodded and the others silently echoed her. Rogue could only nod along with the rest. It didn't matter how much it cost. Bastion would eventually hunt each of them down, starting with Remy but not ending until mutants had lost all hope of ever living normal lives.

"We'll get him," Remy said quietly, his tone assured.

Scott gave him a sour look. "You say that like you know something the rest of us don't."

Remy shook his head, wincing as the motion jostled his ribs. "I don' know anyt'ing, mon ami. I believe." A hint of his smile returned as he made a circular motion with his free hand. "You lot are de ones dat taught me dat."

Scott stared at him for a long moment, but then he nodded. "In the end, I guess that's what makes us X-Men."


	63. Chapter 63

Chapter 63

Remy sat forward and pulled his feet off the corner of his desk when Warren walked into his office.

"Got a minute?" Warren asked, his voice laced with an understated kind of tension. His heat signature fluttered and spiked, and Remy's gut clenched. It was well after midnight—late enough that the Guild complex had gone still and quiet—and the only reason Remy could think of for Warren to be looking for him this late was because he wanted to have a private conversation with the man who had created the Marauders.

Remy's first instinct was to reach for the Glock that sat on the corner of the desk but he squashed it ruthlessly. Scott's voice echoed in the back of his mind, faintly mocking. _Trust doesn't exist in a vacuum, Remy._

Sourly Remy wished he could make that voice shut up. Scott Summers was turning into his very own personal Jiminy Cricket. He'd caught the X-Men's field leader watching him expectantly over the last few days—as if, in the aftermath of the X-Men's acceptance of the Morlock Massacre and everything else, it was simply natural that Remy would extend that trust, the lack of which, apparently, was his greatest flaw.

Gathering his wits, Remy gestured for Warren to take one of the chairs fronting the desk. "Help y'self."

"I heard you decided not to make an offer on Fujikawa," Warren said conversationally as he settled in his seat. Remy could imagine him dressed in one of the gray, double-breasted Italian silk suits he favored. Warren spread his wings, letting them drape over the arms of the chair like some kind of royal, feathered cape. The effect was strangely intimidating and Remy wondered if Warren knew it.

Remy shrugged, schooling his face into a neutral mask. "It seemed like a bad idea."

"Really?" Warren cocked his head. "You must have heard something I haven't, then. If Worthington Industries was in better shape, I'd have gone after it myself."

Remy mentally shook his head. "It wasn' dat." In fact, he'd originally decided to buy the company, telling himself he couldn't let something that wasn't guaranteed to happen scare him away from a sound business decision. But every time he'd reached for the phone his insides had gone cold with dread, and in the end he simply couldn't make himself go through with it.

Warren watched him expectantly and he sighed. "De Witness owned Fujikawa in Bishop's future," he explained, to which Warren responded with a little "ah" of understanding.

"I can see how that might be a little… offputting," he said.

The comment didn't require a response, so Remy said nothing. Warren fiddled with his shirt cuff, seeming to grow increasingly uncomfortable as the silence thickened around them. The colors of his heat signature darkened and Remy braced himself.

"Is there somet'ing I c'n do for y', Warren?" he finally asked.

Warren blew out his breath, sounding frustrated, and laid his arms on the chair's rests. "When you said you were there," he began, his voice strained, "did you mean it? Were you _there_ when they—" He broke off suddenly as if saying the words aloud was too much, but then went on in an angry rush, "When they put me up on that wall?"

Remy's stomach curled into a hard knot. He didn't want to talk about the Massacre— didn't want to think about it even though he relived it in his dreams and heard Sabretooth's mocking laughter in the darkness every time he closed his eyes. But Warren deserved an answer to his question and so he forced himself to go back to that night, to remember the pain and the distant screaming as he'd staggered through the darkened tunnels, searching for another way out.

"I wasn' there when they did it," he finally answered. "I came through sometime after." He couldn't make himself look directly into Warren's face and so stared over his shoulder at the muddied emptiness that made up the rest of the room.

Warren sat forward abruptly. "And you didn't stop to help? Didn't even _try_?"

Remy laughed, the sound harsh. "Y' forget why I was there in the first place? I almost finished y' off, jus' t' put y' out of y' misery."

Warren shoved himself to his feet, wings extended and beating. The sudden gust of air buffeted Remy and blew papers off the desk. Warren stalked around to the back of his chair where he stopped, bracing his hands on the back. He mantled his wings like a hawk and glared across the desk at Remy.

"So why didn't you?" he ground out.

Remy shrugged, wincing as his ribs protested. He was still bruised all down that side from the Assassin's bullet. "I guess I figured y' deserved de chance t' fight f' y' life, same as me." Involuntarily, his fingers went to his stomach and the long, knotted scars that were all that remained of that night. "I didn' owe Sinister anyt'ing at dat point."

Warren stared at him for nearly a minute in silence as the frantic upheavals of his heat signature slowed. Then he let go of the chair in order to pace. His wings twitched every so often in response to his thoughts and Remy kept a wary eye on them. Those wings gave Warren a full seven foot reach and he could use them more effectively than his fists in a fight.

Finally, though, Warren came to a stop and turned. "You're a hard man to hate," he said in a grudging voice.

Remy raised his eyebrows, not sure how to respond. Warren didn't seem to expect anything, however. He went back to pacing, more slowly this time, with his arms crossed and his chin tucked against his chest.

Remy disciplined himself to wait. The other man's body language made it obvious he had more to say.

Eventually, Warren came to a stop. "How do you live with it?" he asked. He didn't turn toward Remy but instead stared at the carpet.

Remy's gut tightened. "How do I live wit' what?"

"Knowing you've killed so many innocent people."

Remy glanced involuntarily toward the gun sitting on the corner of his desk at the flat statement, but Warren either didn't notice or didn't care. He let his arms fall and then held his hands out, palms up, and stared at them. Remy's stomach churned as memories of the rows of charred bodies rose in his mind. He could still taste it in the back of his throat sometimes, that sickly sweet stench of burned flesh.

"One hundred and seventy three," Warren said abruptly.

Remy shoved the memories back down. "What's dat?" he asked warily.

Warren turned his head a fraction to look at Remy. "That's how many people I killed for Apocalypse."

Remy paused, startled despite himself. The X-Men's files had mentioned Angel's defection and the team's subsequent meetings with him as Apocalypse's angel of death, though the accounts were dry and sketchy. But, he reflected darkly, prior to OZT the X-Men had been quite adept at glossing over unpleasant details.

Warren flicked his wings and crossed his arms once more with an uncomfortable shrug. "I went to Apocalypse because I wanted my wings back so badly I was willing to do anything to have that part of myself back. And that's what it ended up costing. One hundred and seventy three lives." He turned to face Remy. "It's ironic, isn't it? You're the reason I lost them in the first place."

"Dat wasn't my choice." Remy sat forward, putting himself in a better position to move quickly if he needed to. Warren's voice reflected more pain than anger, but his heat signature bubbled in a vaguely threatening way. "I would have killed y', but clean, eh?"

Warren snorted and shook his head. "Is that supposed to be reassuring?"

Remy just shrugged. "It is what it is." He didn't think he would ever be comfortable discussing the Massacre, but there was a kind of relief in being able to simply confront it.

With a disgusted sigh, Warren pulled his chair away from the desk and collapsed into it. Remy watched him, wondering what he ought to make of the strange conversation. They weren't friends, but he and Warren had more in common than Remy would ever have guessed; like warped mirror images, the Angel and le Diable Blanc.

"Out o' curiosity," he said after a moment, "have y' ever told Scott about it, those hundred seventy three?"

Warren's heat signature flared, screaming guilt and anger before subsiding once again. "I've never told anyone."

Remy absorbed that. "What are y' lookin' for here, Warren?" he finally asked. "I can' give y' absolution."

Warren made a sourly amused sound. "God you're not. And you still haven't answered my question." He looked away, his voice paling. "How do you live with it?"

Remy leaned back in his chair, wincing as he straightened his bad leg out under the desk. "Same way you do, I expect." He sighed. "Mostly, I try not t' think about it."

"Have any luck with that?" Warren's feathers rustled softly.

Remy shook his head. "Not recently."

Warren nodded in silent understanding. "Me either."

#

Rogue hated coming back down into the Morlock tunnels. The cold, gray stone rose around her, steeped in multilayered shadows and oppressive with the weight of the horrors their silent halls had witnessed. Beside her, Remy walked with a stiff set to his shoulders and the flat, empty expression Rogue despised. It meant he had everything locked away behind a thick wall she had no hope of penetrating. But if it was hard for her to come back to this place, she knew, it was nothing short of torture for him. She could feel the tension thrumming through him every time she put her hand on his arm to guide him around some obstacle. Remy knew the tunnels fairly well from the time of the Massacre, but not at a level of detail that would let him walk the uneven surfaces without help. At least, not all of them. There had been a few portions of tunnel where he obviously knew every crease of rock, and she wondered why he'd memorized some at that level but not others.

Unfortunately, the Morlock tunnels were by far the best place to house the arriving X-teams while they prepared to go into space. The underground maze of tunnels provided security in and of themselves, and Bobby and Bishop had installed a security system around the area they were using. This part of the tunnels lay close to one arm of the Guild complex, and the route from one to the other traversed only abandoned underground areas, making it possible for the X-Men to come and go as they needed. And because the tunnels led all the way out to the wreckage of the mansion, they would be able to bring SHIELD, the Fantastic Four and the mutant underground in as well when that time came.

Beside Rogue, Remy stumbled and she reached out to catch him. His fingers slid across her back, warm even through the fabric of her sweater, and she wrapped an arm around his waist to support him. In the uneven light from the X-Men's flashlights, his face became an alien landscape of angular crags, hollowed and lifeless.

Grimacing, Rogue tried to summon cheerful thoughts. She _was_ looking forward to seeing Kurt again, and Moira, Siryn and the rest. Excalibur had only arrived the night before. X-Force had gotten in several days earlier with Malcolm Lotho himself at the van of their Thief escort. The head of the American Guilds would be staying in New York long enough to join Remy and the Guildmaster of Miami when they met with the new leader of the Bogota Cartel. Presented with such a united front, Rogue doubted the Colombians would argue the Guild's terms, but it was yet one more thing demanding Remy's time and attention.

Ahead, light spilled out of a tunnel mouth, pointing the way to their destination. A figure crouched casually in the shadows just outside the pool of light. It rose to its feet and Rogue recognized Domino after a moment. The other woman raised a hand in greeting but looked them over intently before swinging her rifle up onto her shoulder and turning to lead them into the cavern that formed the teams' living and work space.

"Look who's here," Domino called to the room as she led the X-Men into a chaotic maze of empty boxes, storage cartons and half-assembled furniture. What had been a bustle of activity stilled as the gathered mutants paused and looked up from what they were doing. Immediately, cheerful greetings went up and the two groups converged on each other with hugs and handshakes.

"Oh mercy, they've made a mess," Rogue breathed as she took in the scene. She shot Scott a dismayed look, which he echoed. They'd gotten so used to the Guild's culture of fastidiousness and everything in its place that it hadn't occurred to either of them to tell the other teams they had to keep the floors cleared.

"I know," Scott said.

"They're gonna have ta clean this up," Rogue told him anyway.

He nodded. "I'll talk to Nathan and Moira."

Rogue tightened her grip on her husband. "Careful, sugah. There's stuff all over the floor." She picked her way through the mess, kicking boxes and packing materials out of the way when necessary to clear a path Remy could walk, and led him to a group of folding tables that had been pushed together in the center of the room to form a conference area. There were chairs as well and she pulled one out for Remy, who sank into it without comment.

"Rogue!"

She whirled at the familiar voice and saw Kurt hurrying toward her with a broad smile on his face.

Grinning, she let go of Remy and threw her arms around her brother's neck. "Kurt! How are ya? It's so good ta see y'all!" She squeezed him tight, overwhelmed by a sudden flood of emotion.

Kurt returned the hug fervently but then pulled back, cupping her chin in his hand and giving her a worried examination. "Liebling, what happened to your face?"

Rogue rolled her eyes. The swelling had finally gone down, but her cheek and eye were still decorated with dark bruises that her makeup couldn't hide. That plus six stitches in her cheek made her look like she'd been in a bar brawl.

"It's nothin', sugah," she told him. "Ah caught a piece o' shrapnel is all."

Kurt's expression shaded into alarm, but he didn't say anything. Instead, he turned to Remy and cleared his throat. "Hello, Gambit."

"'Crawler." Remy nodded in a neutral fashion. "Glad y' made it in safe."

Before the situation could turn awkward, Rogue bent down to give Remy a brief hug and a kiss. "Will ya be alright here for a bit?"

He nodded. "Oui, chere. Diedre threatened t' bring paperwork wit' her." He gave her a faint, wry smile. "I'm sure she'll find me soon enough."

Rogue smiled. "Okay." Remy absolutely hated the administrative aspects of being Guildmaster. She straightened and turned, tucking her arm through Kurt's. "C'mon, sugah," she told her brother. "Ah want ta go say hello ta Pete an' Rahne."

They wound their way across the cavern. Kurt looked back over his shoulder at one point with a mystified expression. "Paperwork?"

Rogue just shrugged. "Somebody has ta pay the bills." As much as she hated the idea of keeping things from her family, she knew she couldn't talk to Kurt about the Guild. At least, not yet. How much got said would be Remy's call, based on what the other teams had managed to learn for themselves and how much they ended up needing to know. It bothered her that she didn't get to choose what she told her own brother, but there wasn't any point to arguing about it. She couldn't risk defying Guild law, not when the repercussions would hit Remy far harder than they would her.

Kurt paused and turned to face her. His brow knit with consternation. "Gambit has gone back to stealing, hasn't he?" Kurt kept his voice low.

Rogue cocked her head as she met his gaze. "He never quit, sugah."

Kurt blinked, his expression filling with dismay. He didn't say anything, though, so after a moment Rogue tugged on his arm and they resumed their walk across the cavern.

"Have you… have you talked to him about it?" Kurt asked after they'd gone a short ways.

Rogue's gut tightened. She really didn't want to argue with him about this. "Yes," she allowed.

"And?"

"An' what, sugah? How do ya think the X-Men are payin' foh all this?" She gestured at the cavern around them.

Kurt followed her gaze then turned back with a frown. "Warren has—"

"Warren has his hands full tryin' ta keep WI afloat, especially since Bastion destroyed his headquarters buildin' downtown." She shook her head. In the aftermath of Bastion's attack, Logan had worked something out with Landau, Luckman and Lake to float Worthington Industries a loan so the company remained solvent, but it would be several years before WI regained everything it had lost.

"It is wrong to steal, Rogue." Kurt's tail lashed back and forth, echoing his worried expression.

Rogue could only shrug to that. Having seen the entirety of the Guild's operations she was convinced the thieves ended up doing more good than harm. And Remy had his own moral compass, even if it didn't point quite the same direction as Kurt's.

"What does Scott say?" Kurt asked with a glance toward the far side of the cavern, where Scott talked with Cable, Moira and Sean.

Rogue shrugged again. "He'll tell ya that himself." She spotted Colossus and raised one hand to wave in his direction. "C'mon, sugah. Let's save the serious stuff foh later, okay?"

Kurt nodded grudgingly, which was as much as she could hope for. Rogue did her best to ignore the lingering questions in his gaze as she went to greet the friends she hadn't seen in more than a year.

#

"First, I want to thank everyone for making the trip to New York," Scott began once the teams had all gathered around the tables at the center of the cavern. "You've risked your lives just to get here, and the X-Men appreciate it."

Around him, X-Men nodded their heads. Scott noted with a touch of pride how his team had managed to sprinkle themselves around the table, settling wherever they had personal ties with members of the other two teams. Jean sat between Nathan and Moira. Rogue had squeezed in between Kurt and Peter, and to Scott's relief she had managed to put Kurt as far from Mystique as possible. Betsy had her arm threaded through her brother's and leaned her head on his shoulder, and Ororo and Logan had managed to bracket Pete Wisdom, who was the only person out of the group Scott didn't entirely trust.

Scott glanced at Remy, slouched casually in the seat next to him, and mentally shook his head. Dressed in worn jeans and a couple of layers of shirts for warmth, Remy looked too much like the Gambit of old, not the man Scott had come to depend on as his right hand in the X-Men. He would have preferred Remy in one of the disgustingly expensive suits the Guildmaster was prone to, but Warren had nixed that idea before he could even voice it with a simple comment about how treacherous the tunnels would be in dress shoes.

Scott tucked one hand in his jeans pocket as he corralled his thoughts. "We have a lot of ground to cover, so I'm just going to dive in. The X-Men have made a lot of changes since we first lost our powers. Our team structure has changed dramatically. Our tactics have changed, too." He saw a few smiles from the X-Men at the massive understatement. The others were merely attentive.

Scott went on. "I don't want to waste a bunch of time trying to explain what's changed and why. Instead, we X-Men are going to conduct what is, for us, a standard mission briefing. I know you will have questions—probably a lot of questions—but I'm going to ask that you hold onto them, at least initially. Once you've gotten a feel for how we run our operations, I'll open up the table and we'll try to answer any questions you still have."

He paused to see if anyone would say anything, but the gathered mutants remained silent. Nathan was already frowning, his brow furrowed, and Scott could almost hear the gears turning in his head. Privately he wondered if the X-Men's changes would end up earning Cable's respect or his scorn.

Scott nodded to Bishop. "Drawings, please."

Bishop pulled out the thick sheaf of technical drawings that usually resided on Remy's desk and laid them out on the table. Several people reached out to help spread the large documents, weighting the corners down with whatever came to hand. Murmurs of surprise rose from the other teams.

"Where did ye get these?" Banshee asked incredulously as he studied the drawings. He looked up at Scott. "_How_ did ye get these?"

Scott smiled wryly. Just because he'd asked people to hold onto their questions didn't mean they wouldn't ask them anyway.

"Some were provided through the mutant underground and their contacts at NASA," he answered. "The rest we procured ourselves."

"Procured how?" Nathan asked from the far side of the table. He pointed to the top document. "These look like current specs for Bastion's space station."

"They are," Scott agreed.

Nathan's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "These would have been under armed guard in the most secure location Bastion could come up with. How did you get them? Do you have somebody inside OZT?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Scott caught a flicker of reaction from Remy and knew what the other man was thinking. Had Remy been running this briefing, he was sure the thief would have jumped at the chance to pass off his involvement under the guise of a non-existent double agent inside OZT. Scott, however, wasn't willing to lie that blatantly to the other teams. Some fudging would be necessary to protect the Guild, but he was hoping to keep even that to a minimum.

"No, we don't have anyone inside OZT," Scott said after a moment. He met Nathan's gaze before returning his attention to the table at large. "I wish we did." He tipped his head in Remy's direction. "Gambit arranged it."

Eyebrows went up around the table. Scott waited, curious who would speak first.

It turned out to be Pete Wisdom, who crossed his arms over his chest and rocked his chair back onto two legs. "And how does a two-bit street thief have the kind of contacts to 'arrange' something like this?"

"Hey now," Rogue protested, but Scott held up a hand and she subsided with a frown.

"Obviously, a 'two-bit street thief' doesn't," Scott answered.

Beside him, Remy sat forward. "Under normal circumstances it's a pinch I'd make m'self," he said calmly and Scott saw the ripple of reaction from those who had never witnessed Remy LeBeau without pretenses. "But OZT's done figured out I ain' what they t'ought, either, so it's gotten too dangerous." He fingered his ribs. "I know everybody in dis business dat's good enough to get what de X-Men need."

Pete's chair thunked back onto four legs. "Blimey, is that an open admission I just heard?"

Remy flashed a grin. "Off de record… yes, an' if y' ever try t' use it I will make sure de decision comes back t' bite y'." Despite his smile, his tone was serious.

Scott saw Wisdom stiffen in anger, but before he could respond, Moira leaned forward, her expression severe. "Ach, are ye just going to sit there an' let one of yuir people make threats, Scott?"

"It was more of a warning than a threat, Moira." Scott did his best to keep his voice calm. "The truth is that if Pete did try to turn Gambit in to the authorities, our State Department would immediately pick up the phone and have a few words with someone high up in the British government, who would then have a chat with someone at Black Air, and the charges, the paperwork, and everything else would simply disappear." He glanced at Remy. "But the process would take time and burn up political capital I'm sure Remy would rather not spend, and, quite honestly, it's a headache the X-Men don't need."

Silence followed his words. The members of the other two teams looked at each other until Banshee leaned forward.

"The U.S. State Department." He looked between Scott and Remy, his expression wary. "Just what have the X-Men gotten involved in?"

Scott's first instinct was to tell Sean it wasn't any of his business how the X-Men chose to run their operations, but he squelched it.

"Well, we're friends with the C.I.A. now," he answered instead, keeping his tone light.

"He's _C.I.A._?" Sean demanded with a wave in Remy's direction.

There were scattered chuckles from some of the X-Men. Scott glanced over at Remy who cocked an eyebrow, a smile playing about his lips.

"Non," Remy said after a moment. "Me, I'm jus' a t'ief."

"I doubt that," Cable growled unhappily, which prompted a full-blown grin from Remy.

In the pause that followed, Domino leaned forward and cleared her throat. "So, just how do you know Mal Lotho?" she asked Remy.

"Business associate, chere."

Nate's expression sharpened. "Is he your boss?"

Remy's response was a non-committal shrug.

Nate and Domino exchanged glances, then Domino turned to Scott. "I can't argue with the help Lotho and his people have given us, but the guy's a major player, Scott."

Scott nodded. "I know."

Nate's mouth twisted in a scowl. "So what assurance can you give us that Lotho's not the one calling the shots here? Who's really in charge?"

Scott stiffened. "The X-Men aren't taking orders from anyone." The words came out cooler than he intended, and he saw an answering flash of anger in his son's eyes.

Nate jumped to his feet. "These people don't give out charity, Scott!" He pounded one fist on the table in emphasis. "They're going to want something in return and I, for one, am not going to agree to anything until I know what it's going to cost me and my team."

Scott closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as he fought for calm. He was already getting a headache.

"X-Force and Excalibur aren't going to be obligated to Lotho or anyone else because of what we're doing here," Scott finally said. He opened his eyes to find Nate staring at him doubtfully, and a few seats away, Moira was half out of her chair.

"How can ye be sure?" Moria asked as she straightened. She looked deeply uncomfortable. "These are dangerous people-- career criminals. I dinnae ken how ye can trust them."

Scott internalized a sigh. He'd really hoped to have this discussion later, once the other teams had had a chance to digest the tactical plans. "We're not trusting blindly, Moira," he told her. "Yes, there is most certainly a price for the support they've given us, but their help has already been paid for and we do trust them to honor that contract."

There was a pause. Scott turned to Remy and met the other's red gaze. "Show them your back."

For a minute he thought Remy was going to refuse, but then the thief sat forward and stripped both of his shirts off over his head. He stood, earning a few covert looks from the women in the group which quickly morphed into alarm when he turned to let them see the long scars covering his back.

"Ach, what happened to ye, Remy?" Moira asked with genuine concern as murmurs rose from the others.

Remy shrugged. "I brokered a deal."

"With Lotho's people?" Nate asked.

Remy gathered up the fabric in his hands and pulled his shirts back on before he answered. "With my people." He paused, his gaze intent. "De obligations are mine."

Scott watched the parade of emotions across Cable's face as the other man tried to decide how to interpret the response. He was pleased to see the resistant set to his son's shoulders relax after a few seconds.

"All right." Nate cleared his throat. "I suppose I can accept that."

Several seats away, Kurt's tail lashed back and forth, the tip darting above his head like an angry bee. "What about Rogue?" he demanded hotly. "Is my sister _obligated,_ too?"

Regret flickered across Remy's face, but his voice remained calm. "Oui, she is."

Kurt's eyes widened but before he could do more than draw a breath, Rogue slapped her palm down on the table in front of him. "Not another word, sugah," she warned, her expression as severe as her voice.

"But, Rogue—"

"_Not another word_."

Kurt stared at her as if she'd turned into a stranger. "Why are you defending him?"

"He's mah husband." Rogue turned toward Remy and for a moment the couple stared at each other, their gazes filled with a fierce intimacy that made Scott feel like a voyeur.

The moment ended as quickly as it had begun. Remy resumed his seat, slouching down in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. Rogue, too, sat back in her chair and did not look at her brother.

Scott gathered his wits. "Are we ready to get back to the mission?" he asked the room at large. When no one answered, he took it as an assent. "All right, then let's get to it."

"First, let me explain what the goals are." Scott watched as people settled themselves and turned their attention fully to him. "Of primary importance, obviously, is removing the damping field around Earth. We'll go into the technical details later, but the important point here is that it isn't possible to simply destroy the satellites. Bastion's space station has too many people on it for that to be an option, and there are two backup satellites that would have to be destroyed at the same time as well. Our best option is to take control of the command center and retask all of the emitter satellites to either shut down or direct their fields away from Earth."

Heads nodded as he spoke. The X-Men had shared the information about the suppression field's ragged outer edge and the other challenges they faced in trying to shut it down months earlier, so Scott wasn't telling them anything they didn't already know.

"Failing that," Scott continued, "Jean, Joseph, Cable and Rogue will knock as many of the nearby satellites as they can out of the sky, which will at least create a hole in the field that mutants on Earth may find a way to exploit." He didn't add that, should it come to that the rest of them would undoubtedly be dead. That was just the Hail Mary plan.

He pushed his grim thoughts aside. "Our second objective is freeing the mutants being held captive in the prison section of the station."

Sean immediately leaned forward. "Do we know how many there are?" he asked.

Scott shook his head. "Unfortunately, no. From Jubilee's description, it sounds like there could be anything from forty or so to several hundred."

"How is she doing?" Moira immediately asked.

"She's managin'," Logan answered gruffly. The silver in his hair glinted as he cocked his head. "The scientists think she's taken control of all her sentinel systems."

"They think?" The scars on Cable's face seemed to writhe as he stared at Logan.

Logan simply shrugged. "We haven't put it to the test." He sent Scott a hooded glance. "Yet."

Scott rubbed the back of his neck where the short hairs had begun to prickle with dread. "We're going to need Jubilee to do some early misdirection of the sentinels when we board the station," he told the group. "Long enough for Remy to get into the security system and cut off their access to station-wide data. Then they'll be limited to their own sensors and communications, which will give us a decent chance against them."

Cable rested his elbows on the table and stared at Scott. "What's the test?" he asked, going back to Logan's earlier statement.

Scott shrugged uncomfortably. "Putting Jubilee in a room with the X-Men and seeing if she tries to kill us."

"It's a sure bet Bastion let 'er go on purpose," Logan added, his gaze sweeping the table.

"What about Charles?" Moira asked before anyone could respond to the ominous statement.

Scott nodded, grateful for the change of topic. "That's objective number three." He pulled the top document closer and pointed to an area on the drawing. "When Jubilee was aboard, he was being kept in a cell here. Bastion could easily have moved him, possibly even off the station, but we think it's likelier that he's keeping the professor close in case he needs him for leverage."

"And then there's Bastion himself." Scott clasped his hands behind his back and squared his shoulders. "Our final objective will be to take him down."

"Do we know which agency will take the lead in prosecuting him once we've captured him?" Banshee asked. "SHIELD seems like the natural choice, but I dinnae know where they stand now with the American government or any other."

Scott's gut clenched. He glanced at Remy, only to find the other's expression closed.

"It doesn't matter," Scott told Sean. He cleared his throat. "As much as I would prefer to be able to turn Bastion over for prosecution, we don't have that option. Our final objective will be to kill him."

There was a moment of startled silence, and Scott figured he would be wise to be the first one to say something.

"We're beginning to suspect that Bastion isn't human," he began, "but even if he is we don't have a choice. He's taken out an assassination contract that can't be cancelled except by his death."

"A sweep?" Pete Wisdom leaned back in his chair with a frown. "That must have cost him a few pounds."

"Sweep?" Scott glanced questioningly at Remy, who shrugged.

"Law enforcement's term for it," he said.

Scott nodded his understanding and returned his attention to Pete. "Seven million is the number we've heard."

Pete's eyebrows rose and he whistled silently. "Bastion must want you dead in the worst way, Cyclops. That's a lot, even for the leader of the X-Men."

"The contract's not on me." Scott flashed a humorless smile. "Remy's the target, and he's already survived two attempts. Eventually, they're going to succeed unless we do something." Down the table, Rogue paled at his words but her firm expression never wavered.

"Gambit? Why?" Nate gave Scott a narrow stare.

"Because Bastion's smart," Logan answered with a wave in Remy's direction. "He knows whose death would cripple us most."

The pronouncement was met with a round of puzzled stares, but Scott figured that was good enough. Remy had never built relationships with the members of the other teams, so Scott couldn't really expect them to immediately embrace him in a leadership role. That would only come with time and exposure.

He looked around the table. "If there aren't any questions, I'd like to move on."

He received a few nods and no one spoke, so he turned to Remy. "Gambit, please take us through the station technical specs."

There was a faint shuffle as people turned to Remy. Scott sank into his chair, grateful to be out of the spotlight for a moment. The X-Men no longer looked solely to him for direction or answers and he'd forgotten how intimidating it felt.

Remy waited until the noise of chairs and conversation had died away before he spoke. "Bien. As y' know, Bastion's space station started out life as a NASA observatory almost twenty years ago. Since then, it has been expanded, first by de American government t' support de Magneto Protocols, an' then by OZT. However, de layout of de original observatory has, in large part, determined de structure of de station as it exists today…"

Scott watched with a sense of relief as the expressions around the table shifted from surprise to a hesitant acceptance as they listened to Remy's briefing. It hadn't turned out to be as hard as he'd expected to get the others to reconsider their impressions of the thief, and he could only hope the trend would continue. They would have to learn the truth behind the Massacre before they faced Sinister.

_One hurdle at a time_, he reminded himself. Against all odds, they had the end of OZT in their sights. All that remained was to finish the job. He glanced over at Remy, his thoughts drifting back to those early days when even surviving seemed impossible. The X-Men had come so far since then, and he had to believe they would be able to see it through.

He nodded to himself. _We'll make it._


	64. Chapter 64

Chapter 64

"This is impressive, Cyclops," Colonel Fury said with a sweeping look around the cavern where Excalibur and X-Force resided.

What had been a jumbled mess that first day had become a well-organized staging area. In one corner, Bobby and Mystique were demonstrating the methods and tools needed to break down the ubiquitous black sensor pads to a mixed group from the other teams. On the far side of the cavern, several members of Excalibur practiced cover fire tactics as they moved through a mocked-up set of hallways.

Scott acknowledged Fury with a wry nod. "I'm so glad you approve."

The colonel raised an eyebrow at his tone. "Why do I get the feeling this means you're going to ask me for something?"

"Because I am." Scott allowed himself a smile. He led Fury to a single table set off to the side a ways, where Cable, Domino, Sean, Moira and Kurt waited with the rest of the X-Men's leadership.

Fury took in the group with interest, his gaze pausing when he reached Gambit.

"We've done some reorganizing in the X-Men," Scott said before Fury could comment. He made his tone conversational. "I'm still Blue Team leader, with Storm as my second in command. Gambit is now Gold Team leader, with Wolverine as his second." He gestured to each of them as he spoke.

Fury's eyebrow rose over his good eye.

Scott pretended not to notice. He gestured to the nearest empty chair. "Please."

Frowning, Fury sat down in the chair and crossed his arms over his chest.

Instead of jumping immediately into mutant-related business, though, Scott turned to Remy.

"How did your meeting go?" he asked the other man. Remy hadn't gotten in until after six that morning following yet another round of Guild-cartel negotiations.

It wasn't curiosity that made Scott ask. Looking back, he was amazed by how simplistic he'd always believed verbal communication to be. There was what you said and, to a lesser extent, how you said it. It had seemed quite straightforward. But after spending the past year with the thieves, he'd discovered that there was another element in every conversation that he had never paid attention to—the _why_. And why someone said something was often far more revealing than the words themselves.

Remy shrugged in response to his question, his expression sour. "I didn't have t' shoot anybody," he answered.

Scott bit back a smile. "I guess that counts as a positive." He took his own seat. Remy had developed an active loathing of the Bogota Cartel's new _jefe_, for which Scott couldn't blame him. From what he'd heard, the man was a borderline sociopath. "Did you make any progress?"

Remy glanced toward Colonel Fury before returning his attention to Scott. Scott had no doubt the Guildmaster understood what he was doing in offering Fury some upfront information he could barter in the intelligence or law enforcement communities should he choose, but Remy's skeptical expression made it clear he didn't entirely like it.

After a moment, though, Remy sighed and stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankle. "Not much. De cartel's already capitulated on de major stipulations, so now it's all about how much dey can manage t' get on de small stuff. Unfortunately, de Kingpin's gettin' impatient so I'm runnin' out o' leverage."

Scott nodded his understanding at the same time as Kurt leaned sharply forward.

"What cartel?" Kurt asked suspiciously, splitting his gaze between Scott and Remy. "Are vee talking about a _drug_ cartel?"

Scott shrugged. "Afraid so," he answered.

"Why are you negotiating with drug dealers?" Kurt's expression was more confused than angry, but Scott knew the anger wasn't far from the surface. Kurt was probably having the hardest time out of all of the newly arrived mutants adjusting to the X-Men's new mode of operation. Scott sympathized with his struggle; he'd gone through it himself. It had been hard to accept that there was a kind of heroism in taking on the ugly and often conscience-searing burdens—things that simply had to be done—so that others wouldn't have to.

He bit back a sigh. Having Mystique in the thick of things, doing her very best to demonstrate her support and approval of both Remy and the tactical plans, didn't help either.

"We're negotiating with the cartel because it's necessary," Scott answered after a moment.

Kurt's tail lashed back and forth, making a loud _thwap_ each time it struck one of the chair legs. "Necessary for what?" His eyes narrowed and Scott saw the anger flare to life. "You are not going to tell me zhat you are helping them bring drugs into this city—"

"Jus' de opposite," Remy injected, his tone cool. He didn't look at Kurt, but instead kept his gaze focused on Scott. "But now prices are startin' t' skyrocket an' gang violence is goin' up, neither o' which makes de Kingpin a happy man." 

"So it's time to let it go," Scott concluded for Kurt's benefit, "and get back to our primary mission."

Colonel Fury watched their exchange with an evaluating expression. Scott could see him pondering the reasons behind the X-Men having this conversation in his presence, which was exactly what Scott wanted. It made a statement that no amount of sincere words could match. _We need something from you,_ the action said, _and we're willing to pay for it in currency that has value in the world you live in._

A short silence followed his words. Scott shifted his focus to Colonel Fury. Now it was time to see if that would be enough to win SHIELD's cooperation.

Scott forced himself to adopt a casual stance. "So, Colonel… where, exactly, is the Helicarrier?" he asked.

Fury's expression reflected surprise. He seemed to debate with himself for a moment, but then Scott saw him nod fractionally and knew his tacit offer had been accepted. Out of curiosity, if nothing else.

"It's parked off the coast of New Zealand under about five hundred feet of sea water," Fury answered with a keen stare. "Why?"

Scott had to step on his sudden excitement and saw a flicker of reaction from both Remy and Logan. New Zealand was nearly perfect.

"Can you raise it?" he asked Fury, and saw a stir of interest from the table. His own team knew what he had in mind, but the others didn't yet.

Fury scowled at him. "Only if I don't mind Bastion shooting it right back down again. Why do you think we parked it in the first place?"

"Does Bastion know the location?" Logan asked from the far side of the table.

Fury smiled humorlessly. "His satellite passes right over the top of it, every orbit." He paused. "Unless it's tasked on something else."

Scott schooled his expression to something he hoped was suitably solemn. He leaned forward, clasping his hands together and laying them on the table in front of him.

"Colonel, if the X-Men were to ask you to raise the Helicarrier and move it to support ground operations in, say, Los Angeles, would you be willing to do it?"

He got a round of mystified looks from the non-X-Men at the table, which he ignored.

Fury reached up to adjust his eye patch. "As far as I know, there are no counter-OZT ground operations in, or even near, Los Angeles," the colonel said in a conspicuously neutral voice.

"Regardless." Scott met his gaze. "Would you be willing to do it?"

Fury stared at him for a long moment. "OZT would shoot the 'Carrier out of the sky before we got there."

Scott's fingers tightened around each other. "How long could you evade him, best case?"

"Best case?" Fury's expression sharpened abruptly. "In simulations, maybe six hours."

Scott glanced over at Remy and Logan, gauging their reactions. The beam weapon wasn't housed on the space station, which had a fixed orbit. Instead, its satellite had the ability to change orbits pretty radically, and, if Bastion gave the order, it was capable of chasing the Helicarrier around the Pacific Ocean despite the extreme orbital mechanics involved.

Remy and Logan conferred in a short flurry of words pitched too low for Scott to hear, but then Remy cautiously nodded.

"It'll be tight," he said.

Scott nodded and looked back at Fury. "Well?"

Fury stared at the tabletop, brow furrowed, but eventually he raised his head. "First tell me why."

"I'd like to know that, too," Cable added with a frown.

Scott nodded. "Because it gives us a six hour window during which we can guarantee Bastion's weapon won't be in position to hit anything on land," he explained. The space-based beam weapon was nearly useless over water. There wasn't much there for Bastion to destroy.

Scott saw the other team leaders' expressions clear in sudden understanding. One of the things they needed to make their mission successful was a way to keep Bastion from using that weapon as leverage against them.

Colonel Fury cocked his head. "Interesting. What would the X-Men be doing during that time?"

Scott kept his expression still. "I'm not at liberty to say."

Fury actually grinned at that, but then he cleared his throat and leaned forward. "And what happens to the Helicarrier?"

Scott met his gaze evenly. "Most likely, Bastion will shoot it down."

At that, Fury sat back and crossed his arms again. He stared hard at Scott. "That's a _trillion_ dollar military platform you're talking about."

"I know." And Scott did. "But if we want to bait Bastion into pulling his satellite out of position, it has to be really good bait."

Fury was silent for a long moment. "So, how do you plan to convince Bastion there's a counter-OZT offensive in the works on the West Coast?" he finally asked.

Scott smiled. "_I_ don't." He stared pointedly at Fury until the other man caught his meaning.

Fury snorted and shook his head. "I see. You want a lot, don't you?" He shoved himself to his feet. "All right. I'll talk to the President, but I can't guarantee anything at this point."

"Make sure he understands it can't look like a feint," Logan said, looking up at Fury from under his eyebrows. "He's got ta commit a full carrier group, at least."

Fury nodded. "Understood." He focused on Scott. "And if the President asks why he ought to sacrifice American lives on the X-Men's say so, what would you like me to tell him?"

Scott fought to keep the impact of the words off his face. That really was what they were asking for, wasn't it? The knowledge settled on him like a lead weight.

Taking a deep breath, Scott forced himself to meet the colonel's gaze. "Tell him we all have the same goal."

"Which is?"

He straightened his shoulders. "The end of OZT and the restoration of legitimate authority in the United States."

Fury's eyebrows rose, but then his expression turned wry. "I'll tell the President he has the X-Men's support."

Scott regarded him coolly. "Every president has the X-Men's support, Colonel." He was not about to let Fury or anyone else turn the X-Men into a political entity.

The answer gained a scowl and a grunt of acknowledgment from Fury.

"We'll keep in touch," Scott said.

Colonel Fury inclined his torso in a motion reminiscent of a bow, then turned and strode away. Scott watched him go for a moment before turning back to the table.

"Do ye think he'll do it?" Sean asked. "The President, I mean."

Scott nodded, trying to project confidence. "We're coming up on an election year. He'll do it."

#

Remy made his way slowly through the darkened tunnels, the fingers of one hand trailing lightly along the moist, uneven walls. He knew this part of the Morlock tunnels in minute detail but even that didn't feel like enough to take him safely to where he was going.

Every so often, a small scuffle betrayed Bishop walking about fifteen feet behind him. The big man wasn't trying to hide—in fact, Remy suspected he was making more noise than he needed to in order to advertise his presence. Remy wanted to order him to go back to the others, but he was pretty certain Bishop would ignore him. Clan or not… _son_ or not… Bishop would consider the call to guard Remy's safety a higher authority than the Guildmaster himself.

Remy sighed silently. The constant shadowing was beginning to wear on his nerves, though he could hardly argue with the X-Men's concerns. These days, no matter where he went or what he was doing, there was always an X-Man around and often a senior thief as well, keeping an eye on him. He was beginning to think that the only reason he got to be alone in bed with his wife was because she was an X-Man, too.

His thoughts fell away as he neared his destination. A formless kind of dread took their place, squeezing his stomach until he wanted to gag. Ahead, pinpricks of warmth glowed like tiny stars against the cold background. A single human silhouette knelt in their midst, her hands moving gracefully as she lit another candle and set it in its place.

Remy forced himself forward. He knew this place with horrible intimacy, could walk its uneven slope, winding between the headstones erected to memorialize the innocent fallen without a single misstep. He'd come to this place so many times in his dreams that it felt as familiar as his family's home in New Orleans despite the fact that this was only the third time he'd ever physically set foot in this cavern.

Ororo said nothing as he walked up behind her. From the set of her shoulders he knew she had heard his approach, but, as had been the case ever since she learned the truth, she did not speak to him. Even getting shot had not been enough to break her silence, though for one short moment she had held onto him with the warmth and concern she had always shown him in the past.

Wincing as his bad leg protested, Remy knelt beside her, careful to keep a respectful distance between them. He reached over to pick up one of the candles that lay on the stone in front of Ororo. The last time he'd been here he'd helped her set the memorial candles out but it hadn't done anything to ease his guilt—only made him feel like a hypocrite on top of everything else.

He weighed the candle in his palm. The last time he'd been here, Ororo had asked him about the Morlocks and he'd lied to her, just like he'd lied about everything else.

Ororo paused as he lit the candle off the nearest flame and held it out to drip wax onto the top of the headstone in front of him. When a soft pool had formed, he set the base in it, squishing the end of the candle down until the wax hardened enough to hold it upright. As he watched, the cooling wax slowly disappeared from his sight, leaving only the brilliant teardrop shape of the flame to mark its position.

"Why are you here, Remy?" she asked when he reached for another candle. Her tone was brittle, her heat signature bright and angry.

He bit back a sigh. "Was hopin' t' talk t' y', 'Ro."

"There is nothing you can say that I wish to hear." She reached for another candle, her motions stiff.

"Not even an apology, chere?" he asked. He owed her that, regardless.

Ororo froze, hands raised. "I do not want to hear it." The angry flaring of her signature took on an accusatory edge. "You lied to me." She drew a ragged breath. "Every moment of every day we have known each other, you lied to me."

The words went into Remy like a knife, even though he'd expected them. He tried to roll with the blow, absorbing the pain without letting it make him angry.

"I ain' never been a particularly honest man," he answered when he was certain he had his reaction under control. "Y' knew dat already." He paused. "Or should have, anyways."

Ororo rose to her feet like an uncoiling spring. "That is not an excuse! I _trusted_ you, Remy! I trusted you and you _used_ me."

Nodding, he rose slowly beside her. "Oui, chere, I did," he admitted. Memories of the days they'd spent together in New Orleans rose to paint the muddy darkness around him with ghostly images.

He looked down at his shoes. "Y' were a lil' girl dat needed somebody t' depend on. It ain' y' fault dat I let it be me." Taking care of the child-Ororo had been his first taste of fatherhood, and had reignited the ache for family that he'd nearly managed to bury in the craft and a long string of meaningless relationships.

He shrugged, pushing the memories away. "At de time, it seemed like a good deal f' both of us. Wit' de Shadow King on y' tail already, I didn' really want t' leave y' to y' own devices."

She turned abruptly. "You knew—?" She paused, her heat signature flaring, and tipped her head back. "Of course you knew." She sounded disgusted. "And you deliberately let me walk into the Shadow King's trap so you could then rescue me."

Remy winced. Laid out that way, it sounded so ugly. He'd intended to grab her once the Shadow King and his minions tried to move her away from the estate in Cairo, but Ororo had managed her own escape early, courtesy of a massive lightning bolt fueled by terror and her nascent powers. It had been a gamble to let the Shadow King capture her, but if he hadn't it would have fallen to Remy to reawaken her memories of the X-Men, and that would have stirred up too much suspicion of himself and his motives.

Truthfully, he'd originally targeted Psylocke as his best means of getting inside the X-Men. It would have been a fairly simple step from her bed to the team roster. But the X-Men had been so scattered and consistently on the move that he hadn't quite managed to get far enough ahead of Elisabeth for a believably coincidental meeting when the rumors about the white-haired child thief surfaced.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Can't deny it, 'Ro. I didn' know y', then."

"I was a _child_, Remy. It should not have mattered!"

Remy looked away at the bitter disappointment in her voice. He'd done a lot of evil things in his life, though putting a child's life at risk for his own sake ranked pretty high on the list. A few of those sultry nights in New Orleans he'd put Ororo to bed and then drunk himself as close to a stupor as he could get before his mutation burned the alcohol away, trying to drown out the knowledge of what the Shadow King would have done to her if his risky plan had failed.

As if his silence had clinched something in her mind, Ororo turned away. Remy could see her slowly stiffening, her body language betraying her as she worked to lock her hurt away.

Unable to help himself, he closed the distance between them and reached up to cup Ororo's cheek in his palm, turning her face toward him. Like Rogue, touch had always been the key to getting past her defenses.

"I'm sorry I couldn' be who y' needed me t' be, padnat" he said quietly. "Y' deserved better."

Ororo shook her head but didn't pull away from him. Remy could feel her trembling, and then, in a sudden burst she was in his arms, her own wrapped around his neck as she sobbed into his shoulder.

Remy held her close until the storm of tears eased. Ororo slowly straightened, brushing at the dampened wrinkles in his shirt. Like a little girl, she sniffed and rubbed her nose with the back of her hand.

"I forgive you," she said, her voice thick. She looked up at him, and Remy could imagine her piercing, sky-blue gaze. "But you must know I can never wholly trust you again."

He swallowed against a lump in his throat. "I know." As much as he'd cherished Ororo's unwavering support—her childlike trust—he could never live up to it. "Prob'ly best dis way, non?"

She nodded, though without conviction. Sighing, Remy pulled her close again and kissed her on the forehead. Then he let her go.

They stared at each other as the silence grew increasingly awkward. Finally, Ororo made a sweeping gesture with one hand, setting the nearby flames to flickering.

"My friend, will you help me light the rest of the candles?" There was only the slightest hesitation in her voice.

With a bittersweet pang, Remy nodded. "F' you, ma chere, anyt'ing."

#

Jubilee hunched her shoulders and wiped her palms on her jeans as she walked through the darkened stone tunnels. It was creepy enough being down in the Morlock Tunnels, and even worse with the Fantastic Four flanking her like armed guards. If it weren't for Logan's steady presence beside her, she wasn't sure she could have kept putting one foot in front of the other. What if the X-Men didn't want her? What if they only saw a monster when they looked at her?

She bit her lip. What if she tried to kill them?

As if he'd read her thoughts, Logan wrapped an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. "It's gonna be okay, Jubes," he said gruffly.

She shook her head. Nothing had been _okay_ since the day Sentinels had come crashing through her school's walls. "We shouldn't be doing this. It's too risky."

"Gotta do it sometime," Logan countered with a glance at her from under his brows. "The X-Men need yer help."

The words lit a tiny flame in the middle of Jubilee's chest, but didn't ease the nervous churning of her stomach. So many things could go wrong.

"Because I can talk to other sentinels?" she finally asked.

His grip on her tightened. "Scott'll tell ya the details."

Jubilee accepted that with a grimace. The X-Men weren't going to tell her anything until they were certain she wasn't a threat.

Several paces ahead of them, Colonel Fury came to a precise halt. He glanced over his shoulder, the shadows from their flashlights turning his lined face into a barren landscape.

"It's just ahead," he said. He focused on Jubilee. "Don't do anything threatening and you'll be fine."

Jubilee supposed that was his attempt at reassuring her. "Gotcha, dude," she answered, unable to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

Fury's expression thinned, but he simply turned away. "Let's go."

He started walking again, and Jubilee forced herself to follow. To her left, Sue Richards watched her sympathetically, but she turned away when Jubilee noticed. The Fantastic Four hadn't said much to her today, as if they needed to keep their distance. If things went badly, it would be up them to destroy her before she could hurt any of the X-Men.

Logan released her as they walked around the corner. There, several tunnels came together in a small cavern. The floor was interrupted by clusters of stalagmites, and here and there stalagtites and stalagmites merged into tall, narrow columns.

Suddenly, large halogen lights came on with a mechanical thunk that echoed in the underground space. Jubilee flinched at the bright light, raising a hand to shield her eyes. But even as she did, her vision swirled and then dimmed as if she'd just put on sunglasses. The nannites seemed to be able to adapt to almost any need.

Jubilee lowered her hand. Scattered around the cavern, the X-Men waited for her. She saw Scott first, dressed in his black uniform and holding an energy rifle in his hands. The nose of the rifle was pointed at the floor, but targeting information still flashed to life in front of Jubilee, scrolling across her vision without obscuring her sight. Her weapons systems automatically went into ready mode, and she switched them back to passive with a shudder.

"Hello, Jubilee," Scott said. His voice was friendly but he didn't smile. "It's good to see you again."

"Hi," she answered weakly. A few paces behind Scott, Louis Kim watched her with a frightened, sympathetic expression in his dark eyes. The other X-Men stood silently, weapons ready.

Scott glanced over his shoulder at the engineer. "Mr. Kim, where would you like to start?"

Louis looked at something on the tablet computer he was carrying and cleared his throat. "Weapons systems," he answered.

Scott gestured for him to proceed, and he turned to Jubilee.

"Bring your weapons systems online, Jubilee," Louis instructed her, his voice much tighter than when it was just them in his lab. But it was still Louis, and she'd done this a million times, bringing systems online and back off as they tried to decode the logic written into her microcomputers.

Biting her lip, Jubilee nodded and did as he requested. The nannites had gotten very quick at slicing open the skin and muscle of her arms to allow the laser cannons to emerge. It still hurt, but there was hardly any blood any more. The targeting iris brightened, spinning from person to person as she measured distance and calculated trajectories. The iris had made her dizzy at first, like those first moments after stepping off a ride at an amusement park, but now she hardly noticed.

"Online," she told Louis. The engineer glanced questioningly at Scott, who nodded.

"All right." Louis glanced at his notes, written on a single sheet of graph paper that he held clamped in one hand along with his tablet. "Target lock next."

Jubilee nodded. "Where?" They'd done this before, too, with shooting range silhouettes taped to the walls in place of real targets.

"On me, Jubilee." Scott's grip tightened on the rifle in his hands, but there was no hesitation in his voice.

She blanched, instinctively rocking back a step, and shot Logan a desperate look. "Do I have to?"

He shrugged, his blue eyes shadowed. "Yeah, ya do. I told ya we were gonna have ta run through everything we can think of that might be a trigger." At his sides, his fingers twitched as if he were fighting not to ball them into fists.

Jubilee slowly turned back to Scott. Self-conscious, she clasped her hands together behind her back, threading her fingers together as if that could somehow keep her from ever raising her arms into firing position. Without her willing it to, the targeting iris centered on Scott.

Jubilee bit the inside of her lip hard enough to bleed and then, with a shudder, commanded a target lock. The iris stopped spinning abruptly, snapping into place with a jolt. The accompanying firing solution flashed to life behind her eyes. She stared at Scott. All she had to do was raise her arms and he would be dead.

She squeezed her hands together behind her back so hard the knuckles began to ache. "Locked," she told Louis.

His only response was a nod as he studied his computer screen. "Looks good," he told Scott. "Weapons are active and she has a solid target lock." He glanced up at the X-Men's field leader. "A sentinel would have fired on you as soon as it had a firm solution."

_See, I'm not a sentinel!_ she wanted to shout at them, but kept her mouth closed.

"Could she be holding off for some… programmed… reason?" Scott flashed her an apologetic look before turning his attention fully to Louis.

Louis shrugged. "Jubilee, what is Mr. Summers' current status?"

Jubilee met the engineer's gaze. She couldn't look at Scott.

"Mutant: priority target," she answered through a throat that had gotten so tight she could hardly speak. "Threat level red—that's highest," she added and then swallowed convulsively. "Kill on contact."

She saw the ripple that went through the gathered mutants at her words. They glanced uneasily at each other, hands tightening instinctively on their weapons. It made her want to cry. Or scream.

Instead, she forced herself to breathe; in and out in long gulps as if her lungs couldn't function without her consciously commanding them to. Logan's hand closed on her shoulder, fingers digging painfully into her flesh.

"Yer all right," he said gruffly.

Jubilee managed a nod. She leaned toward him, needing one of his bonecrushing hugs, but pulled back at the sound of Scott's voice.

"Let's switch targets now."

She looked up at Scott, who gestured toward the opposite side of the cavern. "Target lock on Gambit, please." Behind Remy, Rogue took a step forward as if she might protest, but paused when Remy glanced back at her.

Biting her lip, Jubilee obeyed. The command to kill sizzled through her brain again, just like with Scott, but she clenched her teeth and ignored it.

"Locked," she told them.

There was a long, silent moment while Scott and Remy looked at each other, but then Scott stirred.

"All right." He let his breath out in a gusty sigh and the tension seemed to run out of him. He turned to Louis. "What's next, Mr. Kim?"

Over the next thirty minutes, Louis had her run every system diagnostic they'd developed until Scott seemed satisfied that she could control the sentinel programming. After that, Scott lowered his rifle to hang from one hand and walked over to her.

"I'm sorry we had to put you through that," he said and reached over to lay a hand on her shoulder. "I hope you understand."

Jubilee found it strange to look up into his eyes—warm and brown, not covered with a ruby red visor. It had always been so hard to know what Scott thought, but now she could read his concern clearly.

She swallowed against the lingering tightness in her throat. "Yeah, I know." It didn't make their wariness hurt any less, but in her head, at least, she understood why they had to be that way.

The other X-Men drifted toward them. Jean reached her first, and to Jubilee's surprise, held her arms open with an encouraging smile. With a hitching little sob, Jubilee launched herself into the older woman's arms. Jean wrapped her up in a tight hug.

Scott moved past them, offering his hand to Reed Richards. "Thanks for coming. We appreciate your help."

"Any time," Reed answered with a smile. He glanced over at Jubilee, his smile dimming. "I'm just glad you didn't need us."

With a last sniffle, Jubilee tore herself away from Jean's comforting embrace. The adults would start talking over her head again if she let them.

Turning, she stepped up beside Scott. She couldn't help but wipe her palms on the thighs of her blue jeans as she turned to Reed. "I guess I should say thank you, too." She stuck out her hand, which Reed shook after a moment.

"Good luck, young lady," he said solemnly, though his eyes glinted with both affection and amusement.

Just as quickly he released her and turned back to Scott. "We'll be leaving for Los Angeles in a couple of days," he said, "but you should be able to contact us through SHIELD if necessary." His voice held a wealth of unspoken meaning and Jubilee wondered what might be happening in L.A.

Scott nodded. "Take care, Reed."

Reed smiled and reached over to catch his wife's hand. "We will." With a sweeping nod to the rest of the X-Men, he turned away, taking the Fantastic Four and Colonel Fury with him.

When they were gone, Logan stepped up beside Jubilee and nudged her shoulder. "C'mon. Let me show ya where the rest o' the teams are stayin'."

Jubilee couldn't help the smile that lit her face at that. Nodding enthusiastically, she turned to follow him. Regardless of anything else that happened, she was finally back with her family.


End file.
